RASMUSSEN

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

“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

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

What is Machiavelli’s place in the history of political thought? Did he seek to revive the civic virtues
EXCELLENCE
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
UNLEASHED
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 writ-
PAUL J. RASMUSSEN
ers: 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 MACHIAVELLI’S CRITIQUE OF XENOPHON AND
break from the classical tradition.
THE MORAL FOUNDATION OF POLITICS
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.

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

ExcellenceUnleashedLITHO.indd 1 11/25/08 2:33:18 PM

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

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xi

Part One Republics and Tyrants

Chapter 1 Xenophon’s Persian Republic 3
Chapter 2 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny: Machiavelli’s
Unconventional Republicanism 15
Chapter 3 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero 33

Part Two 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 valu-
able 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 Uni-
versity 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.

ix
 

Introduction

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 po-
litical foundations of modern republican society. He is considered an ally es-
pecially to communitarian political theorists attempting to redress the moral
malaise of contemporary liberalism—the unfortunate consequence of the lib-
eral ethic that frees the individual (in the name of autonomy, personal ful-
fillment, and toleration) from all ties of solidarity and the duties of responsi-
ble citizenship.1 Pocock, Skinner, and the scholars they have influenced
argue that Machiavelli is a pivotal member of a venerable classical republi-
can tradition that begins with Aristotle and stretches to the American
Founding. The fundamental principle of this “civic republican” or “civic hu-
manist” tradition is that human excellence consists in the vita activa of a du-
tiful citizen of a thriving republic.2 Machiavelli is praised for his inspiring ar-
ticulation 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 main-
taining the civic humanist ethos in the less-than-ideal conditions of actual
political communities. According to Pocock, this pragmatism is most evident

xi
xii  Introduction

in Machiavelli’s “exaltation of the citizen militia” and “militarization of cit-

izenship” (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 re-
assure men’s minds against the fact that the federal government would main-
tain something in the nature of a professional army affirms the relation be-
tween 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 po-
litical 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 in-
deed be uniquely suited to helping contemporary political theorists craft a
public philosophy that recaptures the public-minded citizenship of the clas-
sical 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 cul-
tivating 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 clas-
sical 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 Machi-
avelli’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 Machi-
avelli’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.
 Introduction  xiii

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 ap-
proach 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 “concep-
tual vocabularies” that were available to those writing about “political sys-
tems 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 problem-
atic, 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 vo-
cabulary determines “the ways in which particular questions come to be sin-
gled 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 reign-
ing intellectual paradigm of Machiavelli’s day was the tradition of civic hu-
manism 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 cli-
mate of Machiavelli’s Florence. But determining the concerns and assump-
tions 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 Machi-
avelli’s extensive discussion of Roman and Italian history, his attention to the
relative merits of republics and principalities, and his active involvement in
xiv  Introduction

Florentine politics, it is clear that he shared many of the same political con-
cerns 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 con-
textual 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 rela-
tionship 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 for-
mal separation of his “political” and “Socratic” writings, Xenophon distin-
guishes political action from philosophical speculation in a way that focuses
our attention on the possibility of political excellence as a noble end in it-
self.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 po-
litical success.
But Machiavelli is ultimately critical of Xenophon. And his critique is sig-
nificant because it is based on a number of fundamental, if often subtle, the-
oretical disagreements with Xenophon about human nature and the moral
foundations of healthy politics. These differences are reflected in the dis-
tinction 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 no-
tions of virtue that manifest themselves in the laws and institutions of tradi-
tional 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 con-
clusions 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 Dis-
courses on Livy. This book will show that Machiavelli understood his critique
of Xenophon’s more conservative political teaching to be an essential part of
 Introduction  xv

his larger project to supplant both classical and, as will be seen, Christian no-
tions 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 Sal-
lust, whom Skinner (1990, 122–23) names as the primary sources of Machi-
avelli’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 Bracci-
olini, 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 Renais-
sance 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 Machi-
avelli’s references to him. Most of these references occur in discussions of the
relationship between the requirements of political rule and conventional no-
tions of moral and political virtue, the most important theme in Machi-
avelli’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 nov-
elty 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, ac-
count 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
xvi  Introduction

darker side to Cyrus’ rule: in Discourses II 13.1, Machiavelli argues that

Xenophon teaches the necessity of fraud through his description of Cyrus’ cam-
paign 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 king-
dom. And he does not conclude otherwise from this action than that it is nec-
essary 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 at-
tained 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 ac-
knowledge Machiavelli’s interest in Xenophon, the majority reject Machi-
avelli’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 ac-
count, 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—espe-
cially the nefarious deeds of effective leaders—Xenophon is commonly be-
lieved 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 moral-
ism.16 Influenced by this low estimation of Xenophon’s intellectual powers
 Introduction  xvii

and abilities as a writer, most scholars have failed to appreciate the signifi-
cance 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 con-
sistent 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 defer-
ence 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 hu-
man 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 subse-
quently 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
xviii  Introduction

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 am-
biguity 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 knowl-
edge 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 possi-
bility 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 re-
spect 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 Machi-
avelli (correctly) recognizes in Discourses II 13 that Xenophon’s Cyrus is not
simply a paradigm of virtue, why does he elsewhere characterize the Cy-
ropaedia as a description of a morally ideal ruler? Part of the problem for
Machiavelli is the mode in which Xenophon conveys his “Machiavellian”
 Introduction  xix

insights. Simply put, Xenophon merely implies what Machiavelli boldly pro-
claims. 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, per-
haps he would not have allowed his “excessive mercy” to become a “damag-
ing 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 ef-
fective rulers and conventional virtue.
The difference between Machiavelli and Xenophon’s political teaching,
however, is not simply rhetorical. Their rhetorical differences reflect dis-
agreement over the requirements and aims of healthy regimes that can be
traced to an even more fundamental difference in their understanding of hu-
man 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 en-
dorsement of conventional morality. For Xenophon, traditional notions of
political and moral virtue, however imperfect or incomplete, remain an in-
dispensable (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 question-
able 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 funda-
mentally malleable; what communities consider right and wrong is depen-
dent not on unchanging moral truths, but on the contingent, submoral con-
ditions 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 in-
terests. Consequently, Machiavelli’s political science is not the articulation
xx  Introduction

of transcendent ideals of universal good, but rather the discovery and expo-
sition 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 re-
shape 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 under-
standing 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 cit-
izenship, are not necessarily consistent with human excellence. The greatest
political goods (e.g., glory and mastery) cannot be shared. Politics is inher-
ently 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 ul-
timately points beyond politics in the direction of the independent and self-
sufficient 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 ex-
cellence with the active virtues of effective rulers, his own intellectual ac-
tivity, 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 cri-
tique of Xenophon than his apparent rejection of classical political philoso-
phy. To fully understand Machiavelli’s break from Xenophon, we must rec-
ognize the extent to which Machiavelli’s treatment of Xenophon is tied to
 Introduction  xxi

his critique of Christianity. This is a dimension of Machiavelli’s critique of

Xenophon that has never been fully explored. Much of Machiavelli’s moti-
vation for dismissing the transcendent elements of classical philosophy came
from his observation that classical philosophy had been absorbed and per-
verted 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 clas-
sical 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 ques-
tions. Machiavelli’s political teaching emphasizes the practical over the the-
oretical and the effective over the moral—but this teaching is itself based on
a theoretically profound understanding of all facets of the human moral ex-
perience that rivals Xenophon’s in its scope and depth. Reexamining Machi-
avelli’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 di-
rect path to reviving classical republican virtue; however, once we appreci-
ate 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 Machi-
avelli, and enjoyed by modern liberal democracies, with the moral commit-
ments 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 sta-
ble regimes that pervade their writings. Chapter 1 looks at Xenophon’s cri-
tique 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
xxii  Introduction

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 inno-
vations that transcend the specific limitations of Persian law. Chapter 2 con-
siders Machiavelli’s unconventional republicanism as revealed in Discourses I
1–8. The focus is on Machiavelli’s argument that healthy regimes do not nec-
essarily depend upon traditional republican notions of self-sacrificing civic
virtue. We will see that Machiavelli’s republican teaching constitutes a radi-
cal 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, em-
phasizing the extent to which their discussions of stable regimes blur the dis-
tinction 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 ac-
count in the Hiero of the possibility of reforming tyranny into a more benev-
olent and prosperous regime. While these two chapters reveal similarities
between Machiavelli’s and Xenophon’s analyses of the substantive require-
ments 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 de-
cline of Cyrus’ empire. This discussion considers two crucial questions the
Cyropaedia raises about the underlying health of Cyrus’ empire and the ulti-
mate 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 innova-
tions in fact conducive to his primary goal, satisfying his own ambition and
desire for glory? These questions about the limits of Cyrus’ success subse-
quently 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-
 Introduction  xxiii

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 re-
veal 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 rela-
tionship between traditional political morality and effective rule, which in-
cludes 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 Machi-
avelli’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 rel-
evance and shows that his greatest contribution to political theory is not his
substantive political teaching, which has largely obscured the most impor-
tant 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 complex-
ity 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
xxiv  Introduction

(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 ex-
ception. 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 Dis-
courses) 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 edi-
tion (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 compli-
cated 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,
 Introduction  xxv

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 Cyropae-
dia 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 1

Xenophon’s Persian Republic

Pocock, Skinner, and other scholars associated with the “Cambridge School”
view Machiavelli’s republicanism, like that of his Renaissance contempo-
raries, 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 devo-
tion to the common good of a strong republic. This interpretation of Machi-
avelli’s republicanism misconstrues the motives and principles behind his
praise of republican Rome, and underestimates the significance of his cri-
tique 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 qual-
ities most antithetical to the classical republican ideal, but the mere fact that
he prefers the fractious Roman republic over Lycurgus’ Sparta—where dedi-
cation 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 high-
lights the novelty of Machiavelli’s analysis in two ways. In many respects,

3
4  Chapter 1

Xenophon’s Persia is an exemplary regime inhabited by citizens of out-

standing 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 Spar-
tan model.
At the same time, Xenophon’s republican teaching shows that Machi-
avelli’s critique of traditional republican virtue is not without precedent.
Xenophon anticipates many of Machiavelli’s objections to the classical re-
publican model. Despite his emphasis on Persian virtue, Xenophon tacitly re-
veals 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 gen-
uine common good and the sufficiency of political virtue with respect to hu-
man flourishing. The Cyropaedia as a whole is a search for an alternative un-
derstanding 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 po-
litical excellence on its own terms, Xenophon is willing “to stress what Plato
and Aristotle allowed themselves only to hint at: the defects of classical re-
publicanism in its highest and most exalted form”; Xenophon thus takes “an
important step in the direction of Machiavelli’s much less sympathetic cri-
tique” (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 ground-
work for understanding the more subtle differences in their analyses of the re-
lation 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’ em-
pire-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.
 Xenophon’s Persian Republic  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 devel-
oping, 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 care-
fully 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 obedi-
ence required of a good soldier, and to the moderation and continence nec-
essary 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 ma-
ture men to carry out the orders of the city’s magistrates. The youths are un-
der 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 excep-
tion 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 ap-
pointed 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 at-
tachment to his wife) to be not simply distinct from, but inimical to the per-
formance of political duties.2 The regime recognizes that desire for such pri-
vate goods undermines citizens’ willingness to devote themselves to the more
6  Chapter 1

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 at-
tached 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 ob-
serving 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 in-
juring 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 jus-
tice 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 de-
signed to obligate them to the regime itself. The Persians believe that in-
gratitude 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 en-
joyed 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 de-
scription 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
 Xenophon’s Persian Republic  7

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 obe-
dience 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 possi-
ble” from his account of the mature men and the elders, Xenophon encour-
ages us to question whether and to what degree the virtue of the adult Per-
sians 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 possi-
ble 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 at-
tending 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
8  Chapter 1

Paradoxically, because of its overwhelming concern with virtue, the Per-

sian 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 sim-
ply. 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 rela-
tively 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’ sub-
sequent 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 pro-
vide Cyrus with much of the leverage necessary to accomplish his great un-
dertaking.

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 initi-
ates 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 foun-
dation 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’ am-
bition, the satisfaction of which might threaten the stability of the republic.
Yet Cambyses does not simply reiterate the orthodoxy of Persian laws and in-
stitutions. In fact, he exposes difficulties with the Persian education to virtue,
 Xenophon’s Persian Republic  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 tac-
tics to use against the enemy. And Cambyses does eventually offer a number
of practical suggestions, such as descending upon them while they are sleep-
ing 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. Con-
sider 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 ad-
vantage 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 straight-
forwardness, 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’ over-
arching 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 jus-
tice. If it is so essential to the survival of the regime that its citizens be will-
ing 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
10  Chapter 1

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 mar-
tial 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 de-
ceive, to strike and not to strike, and to take advantage and not take advan-
tage. 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 real-
istic 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 citi-
zens, 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 Cy-
ropaedia 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 judg-
ing to whom the coats belong, “it is necessary to consider what just owner-
ship 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-
 Xenophon’s Persian Republic  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 lim-
ited 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 dis-
posal to satisfy their own desires, however base. Returning to Cambyses’ ac-
count 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 de-
ceive 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 opportu-
nity to serve the good of the regime and their fellows, some of the more tal-
ented 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 reestab-
lished 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” dis-
pensing justice among them (I 2.6, 14). Despite Xenophon’s earlier sugges-
tion that the Persian education obviates the need for punishment, this edu-
cation 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 con-
tinually reinforce its citizens’ submission to the laws.
Such need for corporal punishment, however, is not necessarily inter-
preted by the regime or its citizens as a shortcoming in its education. In a
12  Chapter 1

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, fa-
thers contrive to make their sons moderate, and teachers contrive good learn-
ing, 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 citi-
zens 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 citizen-
ship 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 inclina-
tion 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 con-
cerns. But this does not necessarily undermine the dignity of loyal citizen-
ship. For morally serious republicans like Aglaitadas, civic virtue is also en-
nobled 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 ex-
acted 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 edu-
cation. 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 educa-
tion to ensure an abiding sense of friendship among citizens in service to the
common good. Indeed, in the passage just discussed, although Aglaitadas re-
 Xenophon’s Persian Republic  13

minds his fellows of their quasi-filial bond stemming from their common edu-
cation, 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 sur-
face three difficulties with the Persian republic: its implicit oligarchic (as op-
posed to meritocratic) structure; its inflexible and sometimes “unfitting” no-
tion 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 attrac-
tive 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 re-
public? Are Cyrus’ innovations capable of replicating the stability and secu-
rity 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 espe-
cially 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 understate-
ment, 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.
14  Chapter 1

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 sug-
gestions 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 part-
nership in a free city (Politics 1295b7).
 C H A P T E R 2

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 tra-
ditional republican notions of self-sacrificing political virtue, by undertaking
imperial expansion, and by judiciously accommodating, as opposed to tran-
scending, factional strife. The key difference is Machiavelli’s greater abstrac-
tion 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, Lycur-
gus’ Sparta. Machiavelli praises Lycurgus, who “alone and at a stroke” insti-
tuted 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 in-
stitutions, 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 con-
forming to free life,” since their “end was to found a kingdom and not a re-
public,” there was no place for the people in the government (I 2.7). Never-
theless, Rome did eventually acquire a mixed government, and even became,

15
16  Chapter 2

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 im-
portance classical political theory places on the rationality and longevity of a
regime’s founding orders. He also questions the classical antithesis of republi-
can government and civic discord. “Those who damn the tumults between
the nobles and the plebs blame those things that were the first cause of keep-
ing 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 under-
standing of the relationship between political order and human nature. Ac-
cording 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 con-
cord 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 nobil-
ity” on account of the “insolence” of the nobility, “they arrived at the cre-
ation of the tribunes for the security of the plebs.”
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  17

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 ac-
count 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 re-
sentment 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 deliber-
ately 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 work-
ing unilaterally to force reform upon the nobility. Fear and desperation rather
than good will and concord were ultimately responsible for this “reconcilia-
tion.” Since “men never work any good except through necessity,” when the
Tarquins, who had restrained the nobles with fear of themselves, were miss-
ing, a new law imposing fear-inspiring necessity on the nobility had to be de-
vised to make them good. According to Machiavelli, Rome’s good order de-
pended 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 “acci-
dental” character of Rome’s orders. Because it was not constrained by the
narrow constitution of an “imaginary republic,”2 Rome was able to accom-
modate 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 mili-
tary is good, there must be good order; and too, it rarely occurs that good for-
tune will not be there.” But then he indicates that this military virtue itself
18  Chapter 2

can be traced to the laws that emerged in response to the accidents of polit-
ical conflict. “Nor can one in any mode, with reason, call a republic disor-
dered 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 ex-
ample, were able to gain the leverage necessary to obtain laws to the “bene-
fit of public freedom” by creating disruptions, crying out against the Senate,
physically abandoning Rome altogether, and refusing to go to war.) The im-
plication of Machiavelli’s account is that the true example of a regime suc-
ceeding 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 in-
dicates that “if one goes back to the reasons,” one could argue for both posi-
tions; 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 ei-
ther 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 [free-
dom] than the great” (emphasis added). Were they stronger, Machiavelli in-
timates, 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 de-
fends 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
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  19

making them more powerful, it enables them to “take away a quality of au-
thority from the restless spirit of the plebs that is the cause of infinite dis-
sentions and scandals.” Machiavelli does not view the plebs simply as decent
defenders of freedom. It turns out that the people possess a remarkably ag-
gressive 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 sup-
port for those ambitious individuals who represent (or pander to) their in-
terests (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 re-
tracts 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 par-
ticular faction would be better guard of a republic’s freedom, and turns in-
stead 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 be-
tween 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
20  Chapter 2

the fear all individuals have of losing those goods (e.g., honor, political of-
fice, 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 au-
thority 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 no-
bility depends on their superiority to the plebs. The implication of this analy-
sis as regards partisan politics is that inasmuch as the good of one faction can-
not 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 ex-
tend past the specific conditions of Roman politics (or those of any city) to
humanity’s universal tendency toward aggression in the self-interested pur-
suit 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 nec-
essary and desirable to keep the nobles and the plebs involved in the gover-
nance 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 un-
derlying 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 ex-
amines 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 imi-
tate Venice and Sparta” (I 5.3). Machiavelli appears to favor Rome’s expan-
sion over Sparta’s isolationism, given the fundamental similarity between ac-
quiring and maintaining.4 Politics is in essence an endless competition for
scarce goods (especially wealth and honor); a regime that expands its do-
minion acquires new and plentiful sources of these goods, which might sat-
isfy 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 with-
out [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
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  21

either arming the plebs or admitting foreigners or both. Venice kept the peo-
ple 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, expan-
sion would necessitate bringing in foreigners, and the material goods to sup-
port 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 tu-
mults, 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 or-
dered like either Sparta or Venice so as to avoid, or at least mitigate, the en-
mity 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 ex-
pands 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 can-
not 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 be-
tween 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 satisfy-
ing 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
22  Chapter 2

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 pre-
emptively 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 abil-
ity 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 rebel-
lion 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 exagger-
ated, blame on the poor quality of Venice’s orders for their inability to sup-
press 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 them-
selves, 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, de-
spite 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 un-
avoidable. 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 ac-
quisitiveness, and the suspicion and aggression it engenders, is in fact essen-
tial to the survival of the city, given the inherent insecurity of political life
and the exclusive character of political success for cities, factions, and indi-
viduals.
There is a fundamental moral ambiguity to Machiavelli’s analysis of inter-
national relations. He makes no moral distinction between wars of aggression
and defensive wars. In the international realm, acquisition and aggrandize-
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  23

ment are as much defensive acts (and hence morally neutral) as factional ag-
gression and oppression are within the city. This returns us to the implica-
tions 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 assump-
tion of the inherent moral decency of the many). Still, he acknowledges that
the people experience their selfish and ambitious spiritedness as moral indig-
nation; they view their cause as inherently just and righteous. The people be-
lieve that they are morally justified in resisting the few, who bear the re-
sponsibility for factional conflict through their active oppression. As we have
seen, Machiavelli exposes the selfish, submoral foundations of this indigna-
tion, 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 un-
derestimate its ability to rouse them to action. The end of Discourses I 5 sug-
gests that this righteousness, which one would expect to find in those who
have been unjustly denied the advantages of wealth and authority, is ulti-
mately 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 re-
venges (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 “ac-
cuse 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, giv-
ing 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 out-
right hatred of the nobility as a whole. Formal accusation of a particular
24  Chapter 2

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 re-
public to ruin” (I 7.1). Machiavelli has no delusions that partisanship can ac-
tually 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 insecu-
rity of political life challenges the conventional wisdom behind classical po-
litical 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 suppress-
ing their own interests for the greater good. As we have seen from our con-
sideration of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, Machiavelli is certainly not the first
political theorist to recognize the great difficulty, if not practical impossibil-
ity, of transcending or eliminating partisan interests. Where Machiavelli dif-
fers 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 republi-
canism 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 re-
publican 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 republi-
can model represented by Sparta, which entrusts the preservation of the city’s
freedom to the nobles, Machiavelli fails to mention what was for ancient po-
litical thinkers the most important reason for preferring the rule of the no-
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  25

bles or aristocrats over the people: their superior education in moral and po-
litical 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 in-
habitants, it did not admit foreigners, and “the laws of Lycurgus were held in
repute.” But according to Machiavelli, it was observance of the laws estab-
lishing equality of belongings in particular “that removed all causes of tu-
mult.” 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 in-
habitants in the city—that is, by maintaining the submoral conditions nec-
essary 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 it-
self. For ancient political philosophy, the goodness of a city’s orders, the com-
mon 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
26  Chapter 2

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 con-
straints 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 citizen-
ship. 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 Com-
moners 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 op-
portunity 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 train-
ing regimen Cyrus can institute for the Commoners can match the years of ed-
ucation 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 con-
cerns. 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 su-
periority is in some ways arbitrary, there remains in his analysis a politically sig-
nificant, if not absolute, advantage to the Peers’ moral education.
To be sure, Machiavelli recognizes that the few, with their superior educa-
tion 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 re-
straint 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 rel-
ative 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 de-
sire 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 dis-
content 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 com-

prehensive political teaching that actually calls into question the very dis-
tinction between republican and princely and even tyrannical rule. It is
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  27

Machiavelli’s position that healthy, vigorous politics transcends conven-

tional 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 alto-
gether 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. Dis-
courses 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 ex-
treme 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 king-
dom—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 trans-
late 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 gov-
ernment as such lacks the decisiveness, clarity of vision, and capacity for
swift action necessary to execute the often-extreme measures required to pre-
serve its own political foundations. Hence even ancient, entrenched re-
publics must have recourse to an extralegal executive authority to act in sit-
uations 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
28  Chapter 2

without any consultation and execute his decisions without any appeal” (I
33.1).
Discourses II 2 is Machiavelli’s most important discussion of the reconcil-
iation 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 of-
fends 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 fur-
ther 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 can-
not 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 free-
dom is necessary for the health of a city, which Machiavelli defines as impe-
rial 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 free-
dom.” 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 republi-
can 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 op-
posed to the one. The people confuse their own advantage with the common
good inasmuch as those who benefit while selfishly pursuing their own good
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  29

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 ac-
quire 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 competi-
tion 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 chal-
lenges 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 leg-
endary 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 polit-
ical 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 Re-
public, do not consistently promote liberty; a growing republic enjoys its ris-
ing 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 es-
cape 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,
30  Chapter 2

but they are not exempt from the necessity of morally dubious acts, i.e., con-
quest 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 accord-
ing to the minimal requirements of a humane regime. In effect, the only
meaningful distinction Machiavelli draws in this passage is between a hu-
mane 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 wel-
fare, 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 Machi-
avelli’s thought.
4. Viroli (1990, 158).
5. Among humanist scholars, Viroli is particularly attentive to the fact that in pre-
ferring 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 ca-
pable of fighting, and if necessary, expanding, is civil conflict, then the city must be
 Tumults, Liberty, and Tyranny  31

prepared to deal with it” (Viroli 1990, 160). In the very next paragraph, however, Vi-
roli appears to dismiss altogether the theoretical significance of Machiavelli’s practi-
cal modification of the traditional republican view. “In Machiavelli’s language…pol-
itics 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 qual-
ity 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 individ-
ually who are called just, prudent, and sound” (Politics 1323b22-35). Hence, accord-
ing to Aristotle, “the best way of life both for each individual separately and in com-
mon 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 1323b40-
1324a2). 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 substan-
tive 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).
32  Chapter 2

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 re-
wards 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 sta-
bility (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 3

The Reform of Tyranny

in Xenophon’s Hiero

Xenophon’s Hiero or On Tyranny also explores the intersection between le-

gitimate 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. Machi-
avelli cites the Hiero in the first part of the chapter, during his ostensible de-
fense 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 Hi-
ero 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 similari-
ties, 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

33
34  Chapter 3

explains Machiavelli’s engagement and subsequent dismissal of it. Despite im-

portant similarities, there remain crucial substantive and theoretical differ-
ences 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 rec-
ognize 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 tra-
ditional 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 ac-
count of the reform of tyranny takes its bearings less from the highest politi-
cal and moral standards of legitimate rulers than from the tyrant’s own con-
cerns 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 ad-
vantages and disadvantages of tyranny. In general, Simonides speaks of its ad-
vantages, Hiero of its disadvantages. If we compare what Hiero says about the
disadvantages of tyranny with what the text reveals about his actual experi-
ence 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,
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  35

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 at-
tracted 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 cit-
izen-warriors of free cities. “[W]hen cities overpower their opponents in bat-
tle . . . it is not easy to say how much pleasure [the citizens] hold in defeat-
ing 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 pri-
mary 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 sus-
picion 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 do-
mestic 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 plan-
ning and execution of the action.
The inconsistency between Hiero’s indictment of tyranny and his own ex-
perience 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 in-
justice” (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
36  Chapter 3

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 com-
placency 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 in-
stitution is safe from the measures a tyrant must take to ensure his rule (4.11).
Simonides does not condemn—or even acknowledge—such injustice. In-
stead, 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, nev-
ertheless 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 dis-
dain 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 sus-
picion of Simonides’ ambition and wisdom, effectively reduces the tyrant to
silence: he now realizes that he would be unable to dissuade (without resort-
ing 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 of-
fered 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
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  37

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 in-
clined 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). Ac-
cordingly, 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 mer-
cenary 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 cit-
izens 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 en-
sure the vitality and happiness of their citizens (11.7). (Along these lines, Si-
monides suggests Hiero should “consider [his] fatherland to be [his private]
estate” [11.14]). To encourage such productivity, Hiero must make it a prior-
ity to reward innovation—particularly in agriculture (9.7). Striking is the
38  Chapter 3

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 char-
acteristically modern project of increasing abundance through fostering in-
ventions” (Glenn 1992, 191). Machiavelli and Xenophon agree that the pur-
suit of individual economic gain—properly regulated, of course—provides a
peaceful outlet for natural human competitiveness. But perhaps more impor-
tantly, such machinations and the benign competition they foster are neces-
sary 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 establish-
ing such institutions is particularly difficult in tyrannical regimes given their
illegitimate and unlawful foundations. The unorthodox character of Si-
monides’ 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 en-
emies.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 formida-
ble 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 empha-
sizes 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 pri-
vately and for those throughout the country” (10.5).
Simonides also suggests that Hiero’s bodyguard could help secure a rudi-
mentary system of justice. The people, Simonides proposes, would be more
inclined to accept, even welcome, Hiero’s mercenary guards if they knew
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  39

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 opportu-
nity 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. To-
ward the beginning of their conversation, Simonides affirms the great bene-
fit 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 pru-
dent distribution of prizes for good arms, good discipline, horsemanship, and
prowess in war) his subjects would be more likely to “set out on an expedi-
tion 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 com-
mon 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 re-
public’s entrenched legal, religious, and educational institutions, it is un-
likely 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 sub-
jects, 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
40  Chapter 3

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 body-
guard 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, be-
cause the tyrant lacks the legitimacy conferred by established, lawful politi-
cal institutions—because his subjects feel no overriding moral obligation, as
citizens, to respect his authority, there is little to prevent a particularly am-
bitious 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 dismiss-
ing tyranny as an irretrievably defective regime. Xenophon presents a com-
pelling argument for the practical benefits of republican justice and lawful-
ness, 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 abil-
ity 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 ac-
commodate 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,
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  41

though illegitimate, politics. Simonides’ description of the kind of author-

ity the tyrant might be able to enjoy compels us to take seriously the possi-
bility 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 secu-
rity and stability necessary for material prosperity.
But we are still faced with two questions that bear on the underlying in-
tention 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 author-
ity and the pleasures he derives from it. This suggests that the Hiero is more
than simply an unconventional attempt to reconcile tyranny with the effec-
tive 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 Si-
monides’ 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 be-
ings, 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
42  Chapter 3

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 af-
fection (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 re-
ciprocal 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, Hi-
ero’s earnest discussion of the tyrant’s lack of mutual affection begins only af-
ter 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 com-
plaint 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 impor-
tant about Hiero’s complaint, however, is not that a tyrant’s success eventu-
ally 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 af-
fection 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 conversa-
tion 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
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  43

be most sexually provocative (1.33), but the pleasure he derives from the cap-
ture 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 dif-
ficulty, however, is that this statement does not account for the specific man-
ifestation of Hiero’s own erotic desires. If his desire for the spontaneous affec-
tion (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 to-
ward 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 great-
est 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 ma-
terial welfare of his citizens, Hiero may succeed to a certain extent in offset-
ting 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 under-
standing 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 dis-
position 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
44  Chapter 3

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 state-
ment that the tyrant might only be capable of becoming “half-vicious,” while
Xenophon does so through his implicit (the Hiero is hardly preachy) exposi-
tion 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 incli-
nation to search for a universal, coherent order of human goods, which is
manifest in citizens’ willing obedience to what they perceive as the right-
eousness 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 tyran-
nical reform, sets his account of tyranny apart from Machiavelli’s. In Machi-
avelli’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 magnanim-
ity 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 dis-
tinction 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 Hi-
ero 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-
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  45

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 de-
clares himself to be “a law that sees” (VIII 1.22)—unlike his father, the Per-
sian 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 be-
comes 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 gen-
erous 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 immedi-
ate 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 su-
perficial 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
46  Chapter 3

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 grand-
father’s servants to reward them for their service and deference. Contrary to
his earlier statements, Cyrus clearly understands the appeal of these delica-
cies to the Medes and uses this to his advantage. He eagerly sacrifices what-
ever immediate pleasure the Median food may bring him for something more
desirable and useful, the gratitude and obligation of others. Cyrus thus com-
bines elements of his Persian moral education with the opportunities af-
forded 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 oth-
ers (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 com-
plete mastery, Cyrus is very concerned with distinguishing his rule as guided
and restrained by piety, moderation, and honesty. Consider the following pas-
sage in which Cyrus establishes both his political superiority and righteous-
ness in a speech refusing the hospitality and daughter of potential ally Gob-
ryas, an Assyrian feudal lord intent on defecting from the Assyrian king.

Gobryas, I think there are many human beings who would not be willing ei-
ther 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
 The Reform of Tyranny in Xenophon’s Hiero  47

have made it become clear that I would not be willing to be impious concern-
ing 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 wealth-
ier and more powerful.13 What Cyrus wants, of course, is not Gobryas’ indul-
gence, 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 de-
scribes the natural corruption of good regimes into their bad counterparts (e.g., king-
ship into tyranny); in light of the naturalness of this cycle, prudent statesmanship in-
cludes a certain accommodation of all forms of regimes (Histories VI 5–9; cf.
Machiavelli Discourses I 2). Consider also Polybius’ description of the Roman repub-
lic 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 as-
serts 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 evi-
dence 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.
48  Chapter 3

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” com-
pels 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 fi-
nal chapter of the Cyropaedia provides as clear a statement of Cyrus’ unpar-
alleled 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

51
52  Chapter 4

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 be-
coming enslaved on account of me. And my fatherland, which before lived pri-
vately, 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 under-
mined 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 his-
torical, philological, or manuscript evidence to dismiss it as inauthentic.2 But
if Xenophon is the author of this chapter, what explains its apparent incon-
sistency 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 un-
derstanding the Cyropaedia as a whole.6
But does Xenophon himself see any inconsistency between the final chap-
ter and his concerns and intentions in the rest of the work? Remember
Xenophon’s suggestion that “going back” and reconsidering what at first ap-
pears to be his unmitigated praise of the Persian republic in light of troubling
observations about its less-than-genuine egalitarianism will help us “under-
stand 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
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  53

of Cyrus’ success is to reconsider the wisdom of his administration, which is

itself ultimately a reflection of his fundamental understanding of the re-
quirements and limitations of political rule. To what extent do his clever and
impressive contrivances to secure his majesty in fact contribute to the even-
tual dissipation of his empire? And to what extent is his understanding of po-
litical rule itself influenced and perhaps distorted by those aspects of his char-
acter (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. Nev-
ertheless, 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 sug-
gests 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 de-
fensive force into the imperialistic war machine he will need in order to sat-
isfy his greatest ambitions. In order to institute his reforms, Cyrus must as-
sume a position of unquestioned authority that transcends the Persian laws.
The first and biggest obstacle Cyrus faces is winning the support of the Per-
sian Peers. The primary goal of the Persian education is to instill in its citi-
zens 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-
54  Chapter 4

sedes the satisfaction of individual desires. The paradox, however, is that the
cultivation of great political and military prowess awakens the desire for in-
dividual 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 Per-
sia’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 him-
self. He helps them realize that while their service to the regime is a mani-
festation of their excellence, it does not constitute a sufficient reward for that
excellence. In essence, Cyrus flatters their underlying but heretofore unar-
ticulated belief that their superior virtue and education entitle them to
greater reward and honor.
Cyrus begins his remarkably frank speech to his newly commissioned offi-
cers 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 ful-
filling 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 ac-
quired 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 an-
cestors 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 re-
spect, their great sacrifices to preserve the city benefit the basest factions of
the regime more than themselves. In effect, they receive no particular reward
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  55

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 ser-
vice 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 aristo-
cratic 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 inten-
tion 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 be-
gins 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 per-
sonal gain, the Peers nevertheless remain conscious of themselves as Peers: they
56  Chapter 4

continue to believe that they are distinguished from the baser Commoners by
their superior education and virtue. Cyrus does not want to completely disa-
buse 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 at-
tempt 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 happi-
ness in the future, he knows this arrangement may prove insufficient pre-
cisely because the Peers are likely to recognize that they might not be victo-
rious. 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 hav-
ing 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 invo-
cation 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 con-
text, however, Cyrus’ allusion to his privileged relationship with the gods shows
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  57

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 au-
thority. 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 mag-
istrates, but is grounded on the support of the gods whose will supersedes the au-
thority 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 in-
crease 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 Per-
sian 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.
58  Chapter 4

But were the Peers ever in much of a position to oppose Cyrus in this mat-
ter? 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. In-
stead, he relies on the Peers’ own recognition of the Commoners’ resentment
of them, a tactic that has the added benefit of underscoring the legitimate as-
pect 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] gen-
eral” 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 en-
sure 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 res-
onate 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’
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  59

claims regarding their likely success are exaggerated, they are unlikely to de-
cline 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 profi-
cient 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 per-
formance of martial duties rather than birth or wealth. Believing that “in
whatever things there were rivalries among men, they were much more will-
ing 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 sol-
dierly 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 excel-
lence, 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 du-
ties; however, it is not adequate for developing the necessary sense of fellowship
among the soldiers, particularly between the Commoners and the Peers. Cer-
tainly, the threat of the Assyrian army is a significant incentive for the Com-
moners 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’ meri-
tocratic system of promotion, and the Commoners’ lingering resentment of the
Peers (who still hold all positions of command), a complete reconciliation be-
tween the two factions remains elusive. This is evident in the explicit enthusi-
asm 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 pla-
toons 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 al-
ways equal between himself and those he invited to dinner” (II 1.30).
60  Chapter 4

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 to-
gether 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 sep-
arates them from each other.” This idea is echoed in Cyrus’ policy of con-
stantly 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 Per-
sian 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 repub-
lic, 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’ capac-
ity 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.
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  61

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, knowl-
edgeable regarding military things, and intelligent, besides being zealous, swift,
obedient, and without confusion. And moreover, the [qualities] that those be-
lieved 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 ambassa-
dors and Peers as he does servants: as men whose primary virtue is unhesi-
tating 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 de-
scription 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, independent-
minded men (like himself and the honor-loving Peers) to excel. To put it an-
other 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 compet-
ing for the honor that attends absolute rule.
There is a more practical and immediate difficulty arising from Cyrus’ re-
forms: 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 restruc-
turing of the army allows him to cultivate the talents of exceptional Com-
moners 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 obe-
dient, that they obey before they even know what is ordered. Indeed, I do not
62  Chapter 4

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 inter-
preted 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 vic-
tory 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 expec-
tation of equality also arouses great resentment among the Peers. Because the
Peers’ previous education makes them better soldiers, and because they con-
tinue 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 prac-
tice 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 re-
garding 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 in-
sofar 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 legit-
imate representative of the Persian laws with the precedent set by his previ-
ous 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
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  63

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 re-
alize their right to a fair share in the regime. Cyrus wins the Commoners’ sup-
port by effectively demonstrating his willingness to set aside Persian laws in
order to benefit the Commoners. But once he shows himself willing to ques-
tion 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 judg-
ments 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 com-
pletely in harmony with the Commoners’ interests, they must themselves as-
sume 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 Com-
moners. 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 with-
drawal from his earlier (rhetorically effective but factually questionable) ar-
gument that the Persians’ heavy arms are so effective that victory is all but
64  Chapter 4

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 re-
main effectively inferior to the Peers; they need the Peers to help them over-
come 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 ac-
cording 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 reser-
vations the Commoners (and perhaps the Peers) may have, they cannot ex-
press 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 any-
one 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 no-
tion 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 associ-
ated 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-
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  65

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 as-
sume 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 Com-
moners, Cyrus creates the need for a common judge who is, or is at least be-
lieved 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’ (espe-
cially 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 sup-
posed to possess as a result of their Persian education. Cyrus has lowered the
standards of human excellence: the Peers “aristocratic” virtue has been sub-
verted and effectively replaced by excellent service to Cyrus. Whatever dis-
tinction they may obtain as individuals has meaning only insofar as it is ob-
tained 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 consider-
ation each gives to building a thriving regime on the back of imperial expan-
sion. 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 rec-
ognizes that encouraging a certain level of competitiveness among his troops
helps bring the newly armed Commoners up to fighting strength, as well as
66  Chapter 4

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 them-
selves 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, how-
ever, 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 pos-
sess 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 be-
ings,” 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 dif-
ference 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
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  67

turn his own earlier objection to the sacrifices demanded by the Persian re-
public against his present argument for the continued practice of modera-
tion. 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 estab-
lish a satisfactory foundation for the practice of virtue among his magistrates
without losing the loyalty he built on earlier promises of great gains and re-
wards. Cyrus’ task is complicated by the fact that the ultimate goal of his con-
cern for his subordinates’ virtue is to make them better able to serve him as
bureaucratic intermediaries, administrators of distant territories, and care-
takers of his immense wealth (VII 5.36, 70, 3.1; VIII 1.9–15).
He begins by proclaiming that self-restraint and diligence actually in-
crease 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 plea-
sure 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 in-
sufficient 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 ap-
peal to the Peers’ sense of justice and obligation. To better understand the
grounds for this argument, it is helpful to consider Xenophon’s earlier ac-
count of the speeches made by the Assyrian king and Cyrus to their respec-
tive 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”
68  Chapter 4

(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 origi-
nally 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 ap-
peal to his troops’ self-interest. Cyrus understands that willingness to make
great sacrifices in battle depends upon the belief that such sacrifices are re-
quired and ennobled by graver and more universal principles than one’s own
rational self-interest. Martial heroism depends on a prior, overarching com-
mitment 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 under-
mined their specific attachment to the particularly austere virtues of Persian
citizenship; but he nevertheless took care not to destroy completely their
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  69

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 will-
ingness 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 Baby-
lon. In taking Babylon, the Persian army effectively defeats the enemy whose
strength and size gave their campaign the air of danger necessary for culti-
vating 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 defen-
sive war of necessity, reminds the magistrates of the divinely sanctioned jus-
tice 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 ac-
tions. “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 ene-
mies, 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
70  Chapter 4

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 jus-
tice 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 ag-
gression 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 sub-
due 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 other-
wise 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
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  71

safety and heroic sacrifice was imminent; they would have ample opportunity
either to prove their courage or have their cowardice exposed. Now, how-
ever, as masters of a defeated city, now that “‘most labor-loving (filoponwv-
tatoß) war has gone to rest” (VII 5.47), it is difficult to claim they are en-
gaged 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 no-
ble 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 implica-
tions 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 po-
tent 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.
72  Chapter 4

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, express-
ing 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 com-
pelled 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 impor-
tant distinction between the obedience of slaves and that of freemen. “We
must differ from slaves in this manner: whereas slaves serve their masters in-
voluntarily, if we consider ourselves worthy of freedom, we must do volun-
tarily 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 se-
cure 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 com-
pel attendance, he orders that whenever someone is absent, someone else
who is present is entitled to take what belongs to the missing magistrate and
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  73

“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 with-
holds his judgment still longer, thereby forcing the absent man to wait in-
definitely 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 pun-
ishing 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 en-
ables 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 “be-
lieved were partners in what had been accomplished,” allocating such re-
wards “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 em-
pire. While Cyrus, at least for now, has not altogether ceased his attempt to
cultivate these virtues, inculcating obedience and attentiveness in his subor-
dinates 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 oth-
ers practice it as well (VIII 1.30). Xenophon indicates, however, that he suc-
ceeds only in making them respectful (aijdw) and decorous (eujkosmivan)
(VIII 1.33), which is quite significant in light of Cyrus’ own distinction between
74  Chapter 4

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 be-
lieved 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 unwar-
like would be unjust and the “dissolution of rule”; not allowing them to ap-
proach 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 self-
lessness 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 descrip-
tion 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 wa-
tered, just like “beasts of burden.” Freeing them from these bodily concerns
makes them better able to serve their superiors (VIII 1.44). Xenophon indi-
cates 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-
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  75

etly, but unmistakably, suggests that Cyrus no longer makes a meaningful dis-
tinction between the noble—whose concern for such higher goods as honor
and authority might have at one time helped them moderate their baser de-
sires—and slavish individuals motivated primarily by their carnal appetites.
The “paternal” care he takes for everyone beneath him reduces all of his sub-
ordinates 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 high-
minded men (cf. VIII 3.21). In accepting such honors from Cyrus, the mag-
istrates surrender their dignity and autonomy, not just as noblemen, but per-
haps 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 shar-
ing 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 “gen-
erosity” 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 so-
called 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 con-
spiring 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 hon-
ored 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 as-
signments, 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
76  Chapter 4

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 dis-
pute, 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 win-
ner “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 re-
public 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 en-
couraged 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 Per-
sians’ previous moderation and continence is that they still refrain from spit-
ting or blowing their noses (VIII 8.8; cf. I 2.16, 8). They no longer labor be-
fore 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 go-
ing 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-
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  77

solution have even replaced the imperial guard with “doormen, cooks, sauce-
makers, wine-pourers, bathers, waiters . . . assistants for going to bed, assis-
tants 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 attend-
ing 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 some-
thing else “noble and good,” subsequent kings routinely honor those who
commit acts of impious betrayal and infidelity. “Now if someone like Mithri-
dates betrays his father Ariobarzanes, and if someone like Rheomithres
leaves his wife, his children, and the children of his friends with the Egyp-
tian 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 prac-
tice 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 “pro-
vide [themselves] as patterns for our children” (VII 5.85). This education,
however, takes place not in Old Persia according to its ancient laws and in-
stitutions, 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 hear-
ing 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
78  Chapter 4

legal dispute to seek the most favorable judges for themselves. In the end,
Xenophon confirms the questionable nature of the education to justice un-
der 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 achieve-
ments. Indeed, that he was able to maintain the stability of his empire de-
spite its institutional and moral defects actually underscores his unique ca-
pacity 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 possi-
ble. However, Xenophon’s account of Cyrus’ empire as a whole does consti-
tute 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 great-
ness.)27 It is, therefore, unreasonable to look towards the rule of such indi-
viduals as a viable solution to the problem of political instability described in
the first chapter of the Cyropaedia. In contrast, the ancient laws and institu-
tions of conservative republics such as Persia enjoy a transcendent authority
and constancy that allows them to withstand the fluctuations in the capaci-
ties 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 tenu-
ous, 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 demon-
strates the possibility of a regime that is not limited by the arbitrary con-
straints imposed on human excellence by the necessarily restrictive laws of
 The Legacy of Cyrus and the Limits of Politics  79

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 in-
stitutions capable of ensuring, in any lasting way, the most important char-
acteristic 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 em-
pire may be a rhetorical attempt to criticize the shortcomings of his Persian contem-
poraries (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 well-
being 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 lim-
itations 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, how-
ever, 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 prob-
lem of virtue a central theme in his work.
80  Chapter 4

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 be-
ings (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 per-
fect 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 (Cy-
ropaedia 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 pos-
sible 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 re-
sistance (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).
 C H A P T E R 5

Cyrus’ Socratic Education

There is, however, a difficulty with Xenophon’s apparent endorsement of tra-

ditional republicanism. The Cyropaedia may direct Xenophon’s readers to a
more politically responsible appreciation for the demands of republican gov-
ernment, but the path Xenophon takes also teaches us to be at least skepti-
cal of the kind of unquestioned devotion characteristic of true republican pa-
triots 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 natu-
ral impulses of human beings to devote themselves to a greater good, it is ul-
timately 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 ex-
ploits 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 Cy-
ropaedia 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 polit-
ical 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

81
82  Chapter 5

like Cyrus to forsake traditional republicanism in order to rule on the great-

est scale imaginable: after eliciting the grandest ambitions of his most tal-
ented 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 tran-
scends 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 am-
biguity 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 vindica-
tion 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= ajnqr-
wvpwn)” (11.11). By the fact of his own visit to Hiero, Simonides acknowl-
edges 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 ad-
mission that it is common practice for a tyrant, out of fear for his own secu-
rity, 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
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  83

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 in-
vaders. Thus, just as Hiero’s desire to be loved would bind him to the ordi-
nary 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 char-
acter of the excellence sought by wise individuals. “[T]he limits of love co-
incide normally with the borders of the political community, whereas admi-
ration 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 capa-
ble 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 par-
ticular 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 hon-
ors 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 se-
curity 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 pre-
supposes 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 pur-
suit 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 conver-
sation between Cyrus and his father Cambyses,6 is the requirements and aims
84  Chapter 5

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 ed-
ucation. 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 in-
dolent (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 provi-
dence. 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 calcu-
lated 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 be-
come such as is necessary, this certainly appeared to us at that time to be mar-
velous. (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 require-
ments of the household. It is also clear that becoming “good and noble one-
self” is a distinct activity from managing one’s estate. (Notice that making
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  85

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 suffi-
cient 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 be-
tween 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 Cam-
byses 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 politi-
cal 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 it-
self. 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 Cam-
byses’ discussion of individual virtue. This is not to say that Cyrus is wholly
unconcerned with virtue.8 Nevertheless, his comments reveal that his con-
cern with virtue is determined by and hence subordinate to his love of polit-
ical 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 ad-
vantage 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).
86  Chapter 5

In an effort to show Cyrus how his concern for honor may limit his polit-
ical 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 depen-
dent 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 per-
suasive 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 supply-
ing 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 re-
turn, 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 house-
hold, a strong army begins with care for the basic necessities of life—politi-
cal 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 mun-
dane. Again, Cyrus’ understanding of the relationship between human ne-
cessity 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 con-
sistent 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-
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  87

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 sup-
plied 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 addi-
tion to the things promised, they will award honor for these things and prob-
ably 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 (contradic-
tory) components. An excellent ruler may at times succeed in securing man-
ifest, 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 hu-
man 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 po-
tential 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 pru-
dence 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
88  Chapter 5

his subordinates with the substantive benefits, e.g., health, security, and pros-
perity, for which humans turn to the city and its rulers. Hence Cambyses ad-
monishes 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 lov-
ing 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 un-
dermine Persian justice in the minds of his officers. Besides, there is never-
theless 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 pro-
claims, 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 hu-
man 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
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  89

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 horse-
man, 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 ac-
quire 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 hu-
man 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 pru-
dent 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 suc-
cessful rule may not necessarily depend on the kind of comprehensive knowl-
edge 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 indi-
vidual citizens, but, more importantly, that he be able to make his subjects
themselves willing to make such sacrifices.14 The rational articulation and
90  Chapter 5

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 se-
cure 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 re-
joice 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 polit-
ical 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 re-
frain from speaking of what he does not know clearly, that “sometimes oth-
ers 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: hu-
man 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 se-
cure 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-
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  91

ferent cities for the glory of conquest and dominion. Consequently, he be-
lieves that what is most prudent for a ruler with a well-equipped and enthu-
siastic army is to strike the enemy as soon as possible (I 6.26, III 3.9). Hav-
ing 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 in-
tends 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) maintain-
ing 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 re-
place 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 con-
jecture 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 won-
der, 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 pas-
sage 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
92  Chapter 5

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 part-
ners 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 him-
self. Cyrus may cunningly use the piety of his subordinates for his own politi-
cal 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 be-
yond 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 my-
self 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 pol-
itics capable of securing the noncontingent goods necessary for genuine hu-
man self-sufficiency. The Cyropaedia is surely a testimony to Cyrus’ unri-
valled 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 suc-
cess is ultimately dependent on so many events and circumstances (human,
natural, and possibly even divine in origin) that are not guided by any nec-
essary 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
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  93

human beings? This question is never conclusively answered in the Cyropae-

dia; Xenophon leaves open the possibility that the highest aspirations of hu-
man beings are ultimately beyond human power. Nevertheless, in light of
Cambyses’ implicit comparison of Cyrus’ political ambition with a less polit-
ical, 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 es-
pecially if that understanding includes a fuller awareness of humanity’s limi-
tations. 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 sug-
gests that for human beings to succeed it is necessary that the gods not op-
pose them (I 6.18). But he does not explicitly state that divine support is nec-
essary 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 dili-
gence 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 sub-
ject himself to the rigorous and politically detached self-examination neces-
sary 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 self-
sufficient 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 writ-
ings, 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 al-
ready, there are a number of similarities between Cambyses’ advice and
things Xenophon has Socrates himself say. And reconsider Cambyses’ de-
scription 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 pos-
sessions 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
94  Chapter 5

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 com-
mon is that they explicitly or implicitly defend Socrates by suggesting that
this “corruption” is the natural result of what is actually a decent and mod-
erate 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 re-
gards 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 grati-
fied. Violence thus does not come from those who train themselves in good
sense. Rather, such practices belong to those who have strength without judg-
ment. (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 politi-
cal 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 ex-
cellence 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-
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  95

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 mis-
takes 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 de-
fense 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 philo-
sophic 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 re-
main skeptical of, if not hostile to, those who embody or defend the philo-
sophic 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 under-
standing 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 ini-
tially 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 ben-
efit the city is ultimately limited by his awareness of the gap between the in-
evitably contradictory beliefs and requirements of the city and the philo-
sophic 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
96  Chapter 5

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 Machi-
avelli’s response to Xenophon, we find he has a much different response to
the question of the influence philosophers can have over politics. Machi-
avelli is far more optimistic regarding not only the extent to which philoso-
phy 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 phi-
losophy 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 benefac-
tion (VIII 5.67).
5. Cf. Hiero 7.3 and consider the implications of Simonides’ suggestion that Hi-
ero’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 emphasiz-
ing 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 suf-
ficiently the requisite individual virtues of which Cambyses speaks.
9. On cruelty as a necessary component of a military commander, reconsider Cy-
ropaedia 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 condi-
tion for acquiring and maintaining a household. In the latter passage, he finally ad-
 Cyrus’ Socratic Education  97

mits that unforeseen forces—human and natural—make even the most knowledge-
able 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; Cy-
ropaedia 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 noth-
ing 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).
 C H A P T E R 6

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 excel-
lent 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 Sci-
pio how much glory that imitation brought him, how much in chastity, affa-
bility, 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 polit-
ical virtues that Xenophon and other classical writers sought to cultivate in
princes. Contrary to what Scipio learned from Xenophon’s Cyrus, Machi-
avelli 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 de-
parture 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 him-
self, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according

99
100  Chapter 6

to necessity.” Grounding his advice on what he calls the “effective truth” of

politics rather than on traditional morality, Machiavelli implies that how-
ever glorious Xenophon’s Cyrus may appear, Xenophon’s text does not teach
sufficiently the harsh truths of political success; it does not provide an ade-
quate 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 ac-
count of Cyrus fosters in men like Scipio a misguided belief in the omnipo-
tence of moral virtue, it makes them dependent on and subject to the unre-
liable or inconsistent goodness of others.
But is this an accurate account of Xenophon’s teaching, or even of Machi-
avelli’s understanding of Xenophon’s teaching? Our own study of the Cy-
ropaedia in previous chapters, of course, has revealed it to be a much more so-
phisticated and subtle account of political rule that acknowledges not only
the efficacy of nefarious politics, but also the potential deficiencies of tradi-
tional notions of virtue. Indeed, one of the fundamental questions Xenophon
explores in the Cyropaedia is the possibility that the pursuit of political am-
bition 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 com-
plexity and ambiguity of Xenophon’s writings. Machiavelli recognizes that
Xenophon encourages at least his more perceptive readers to see the distinc-
tion between genuine virtue and the politically expedient appearance of such
virtue. He draws our attention to the fact that Xenophon actually under-
stands, 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 im-
ply 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 pre-
sumptuous, 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-
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  101

tween political and moral virtue—differences that cause the one to under-
state, and the other to exclaim (and perhaps overstate) the harsher truths of
political success.5 The roots of this serious, though not necessarily antago-
nistic, disagreement can be traced to the different conceptions of human na-
ture underlying Machiavelli and Xenophon’s teaching on humane and pros-
perous 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 ba-
sis of the great Persian empire. Cyrus’ success in establishing these new laws
and institutions secured for him the enduring glory and reverence that is re-
served 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 Machi-
avelli refers to as a “captain,” a “prince,” and even a “king,” but never a
tyrant) only by “proportion.” Even more unsettling is Machiavelli’s ambiva-
lent 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 adver-
saries, one does not see why he has to be judged inferior to any most excel-
lent 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 be-
tween the crimes of the tyrant and the heroics of the glorious founder. The
basis of his distinction, however, is not necessarily consistent with conven-
tional moral and political wisdom. According to Machiavelli, what sets the
founder apart is his ability to transform the political institutions and moral
102  Chapter 6

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 Agath-
ocles failed not necessarily because they acted any less violently or fraudu-
lently, but rather because they went much farther than Agathocles in utiliz-
ing 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 de-
fenders” (Prince 6). To be successful, therefore, founders must not only elim-
inate 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 awesome-
ness 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 en-
dured 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 relation-
ship between the people and the prince. If the ruler is to preserve himself, he
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  103

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 conve-
nience 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 presum-
ing the existence in political life of justice understood as gratitude and benef-
icent 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 ef-
fective 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 impor-
tant qualifications on its use. The necessity of force does not give rulers li-
cense 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.
104  Chapter 6

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 ambi-
tious princes; but this ought not obscure the genuine—though certainly stern
and circumscribed—humanity underlying even or especially his most notori-
ous 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 ad-
mirable 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 “any-
thing 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 alto-
gether to distinguish between Hannibal’s virtues and vices, but he even inti-
mates 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 hu-
man excellence insofar as it enabled him to flourish by overcoming the diffi-
culty 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 ac-
knowledges 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 jeop-
ardy. 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
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  105

result of his cruelty, Scipio’s authority and hence his fate were ultimately de-
pendent upon the disposition and actions of those around him.11
But perhaps more importantly, in calling Scipio the “corruptor of the Ro-
man 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 re-
fused to avenge the Locrians after they were pillaged by his legate Pleminius.
This failure or unwillingness to extract vengeance was in effect a cruel neg-
lect of the welfare of those whose fate was completely in his hands. His in-
action 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, al-
lowed Pistoia to be destroyed.” Even when speaking of the notorious Agatho-
cles, who enjoyed a long and secure rule despite his “infinite betrayals and cru-
elties,” 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 ne-
cessity to secure oneself, and then are not persisted in but turned to as much util-
ity 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 dis-
cussion, especially of the most excellent armed prophets, is a radical under-
standing 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, depend-
ing on your partisan loyalties) to substantively alter their fundamental un-
derstanding 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 ambi-
tious individuals vis-à-vis the world as it manifests itself to human beings. In
106  Chapter 6

Prince 6, Machiavelli asserts that we live in a fundamentally hostile and un-

compromising 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 under-
stated: 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 rec-
ognizes there are limits to our ability to conquer fortune—we are not gods af-
ter 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 ambi-
tious readers an almost open-ended political project that calls forth the cre-
ative genius essential to the best rulers. Human beings are inextricably self-
ish 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 qual-
ified. We gather from Machiavelli’s comments in Discourses II 13 that he be-
lieves 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 tac-
itly 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 suc-
ceeded (at least according to his initial assertion) because of their humanity:
Camillus, Fabricius, Scipio, and Xenophon’s Cyrus. The key question, how-
ever, is how this humanity and success are related to the use of force. Machi-
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  107

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 school-
master. 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 Ro-
man 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 ex-
tent it helped to ensure Camillus’ victory. Unlike Livy’s discussion of Camil-
lus’ 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 vio-
lent act,” it is clear that for Machiavelli Camillus’ humanity was perfectly
108  Chapter 6

consistent with the brutal beating of the schoolmaster. According to Machi-

avelli, Camillus’ prudent and politic humanity is admirable, in this instance,
to the degree it served as a replacement for arms. Camillus was able to capi-
talize 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 signif-
icant that just as Machiavelli makes no reference to Camillus’ magnanimity
and justice, so he makes no reference in this passage to nature. Camillus’ hu-
manity 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, how-
ever, are meant to illustrate different, non-Machiavellian, ideas about the
kind and degree of strength embodied in traditional virtue. Immediately fol-
lowing the “true example” of Camillus, which shows that humanity accom-
plished 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 Machi-
avelli seems to suggest continuity between the example of Camillus’ human-
ity 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) accom-
plished what arms could not. The third example tells us that it was less Sci-
pio’s capture of New Carthage than his chastity (manifest in his having re-
turned a wife to her husband untouched) that gave him such great fame and
“made all Spain friendly to him.” Here, virtue ultimately proved more pow-
erful than arms. We might also say that virtue succeeded against arms: Sci-
pio’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 ex-
ample of himself as proud, or as cruel, or as lustful, or as having any other vice
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  109

that stains the life of men.” Xenophon’s Cyrus, according to Machiavelli, ap-
pears 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 as-
sertion of his that writers tailor their work to the moral prejudices of their au-
diences: one sees how much “this part [virtue] is desired in great men by peo-
ples, 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 ex-
position of Xenophon’s intentional emphasis on Cyrus’ apparent virtues in-
timates 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 suffi-
ciency of virtue as the guarantor of good rule. The implication is that the po-
litical 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 demon-
strates, the articulation and cultivation of true human excellence ultimately
calls into question the choice-worthiness of the political goods sought by ambi-
tious 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 hu-
man beings attach to political life. Yet, it is precisely because of these difficulties
that Xenophon genuinely, if qualifiedly, endorses a conservative political teach-
ing 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.
110  Chapter 6

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 conven-
tional political morality remains dependent, to a crucial degree, on its ability
to address (if not fully satisfy) the essential longings underlying our attach-
ment 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 peo-
ple’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 am-
bitious 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 hu-
manity’s innate drive for worldly glory, material prosperity, and security.
Machiavelli’s reduction of good rule to its technical or practical compo-
nents is a radical denial that humanity is guided by a fixed moral compass
that restricts our capacity for the pursuit of temporal greatness, which re-
quires 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 cele-
bration of his pragmatic and stern humanity. In so doing, Machiavelli sug-
gests that the classical tradition significantly overestimates the degree to
which humanity and human moral institutions are defined and constrained
 Machiavelli’s Cyrus and the Humanity of Effective Rule  111

by a natural drive to participate in a transcendent moral order. Classical po-

litical 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 ar-
ticulate the profound political limits implied in our highest, but unattain-
able, moral longings; it fails to appreciate and embrace the potential inher-
ent 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 fail-
ing 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 Hi-
ero (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
112  Chapter 6

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 Sci-
pio for his failure to correct the “insolence” of the officer who had destroyed the Locri-
ans argued that there “were many men who knew how not to err than to correct er-
rors.” 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 for-
eign 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, con-
sider 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 al-
ters 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 sol-
diers 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, con-
quering 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, Machi-
avelli 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 7

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 ex-
plain 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 under-
mine altogether humanity’s capacity and respect for the active virtues em-
bodied in the classical statesman or general—and certainly not to the ex-
tent that someone like Machiavelli would need to construct an entirely new
moral foundation for political excellence. For Xenophon, the fact that po-
litical 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 re-
lationship to politics, including his challenge to classical political philoso-
phy, was also or primarily necessitated by the rise of Christianity. In Machi-
avelli’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

113
114  Chapter 7

becomes decisively problematic insofar as it is vulnerable to being miscon-

strued or misinterpreted by Christian readers who see in the classical em-
phasis on transpolitical virtue only justification for their own faith in the om-
nipotence of otherworldly virtue.
In Discourses III 21.1 we find that in addition to chastity, affability, hu-
manity, and liberality, Machiavelli adds mercy and humility to the list of ad-
mirable 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 clas-
sical 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 nec-
essary for humanity to defend its earthly estate.2 Machiavelli’s response is an
attempt to revive humanity’s capacity for political excellence through a rad-
ical innovation—promulgated through an equally bold rhetoric—in our un-
derstanding 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 educa-
tion 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 sacri-
fices, ancient sacrifices were magnificent, full of “blood,” “ferocity,” and “vig-
orous action”; and the “terrible” sight of animal sacrifice rendered men “sim-
ilar 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
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  115

who were full of worldly glory, such as “captains of armies and princes of re-
publics.” Christianity, in contrast, glorifies those who are “humble and con-
templative,” 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.” Cer-
tainly 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, free-
dom did not rise again (except in “a few places”). The reason is that the Ro-
man Empire itself was superseded, or more precisely conquered, by Chris-
tianity, 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 refer-
ence—in this paragraph largely dedicated to an explicit discussion of Chris-
tianity—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 Chris-
tianity on the people it ostensibly defends. Machiavelli addresses this prob-
lem in Discourses III 1.4. “Our religion,” he argues, would have been “alto-
gether 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
116  Chapter 7

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 con-
fessions 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 cor-
rupt clergy. This “renewal,” which “has maintained and maintains this reli-
gion,” 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, Christian-
ity is like the tyranny Machiavelli describes Discourses II 2.1 in that it can-
not 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 our-
selves, it is only for the sake of enduring suffering. Having convinced hu-
manity that it is impossible—and wrong—to imitate those ancient peoples
who took “extraordinary revenges against those who have seized their free-
dom,” 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, spir-
ituality of Christianity, on the other. Isaiah Berlin is particularly attentive
to this difficulty. “If men practice Christian humility, they cannot be in-
spired 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
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  117

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 commonsen-
sical view that in the course of enumerating his pragmatic political teach-
ing, Machiavelli divorces politics from all questions of morality. Politics be-
comes 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 implic-
itly concedes the superior authority of Christian morality, but tacitly con-
demns such deeds from the traditional moral perspective. Separating the
spheres of Christian morality and politics essentially leaves Christian moral-
ity 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 posi-
tion unwittingly underscore what looks to be a hidden morality to Machi-
avelli’s thought.9 Benedetto Croce to some extent acknowledges this diffi-
culty 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 Chris-
tianity is that his praise of ancient Roman virtue represents an attempt to re-
cover 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 ul-
timate 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 “no-
toriously 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 replace-
ment for, Christian morality, Berlin fails to grasp that Machiavelli’s response
to the tension between earthly politics and transcendent spirituality extends
118  Chapter 7

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 sim-
ply 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 re-
viving any aspect of ancient virtue, he must aggressively confront the over-
whelmingly powerful Christian moral prejudice against the pursuit of tempo-
ral 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 be-
tween spiritual salvation and worldly glory.
It is not surprising, then, the emphasis Machiavelli places on the differ-
ence 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, cap-
tains, 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 va-
riety of accidents contained in them without thinking of imitating them, judg-
ing that imitation is not only difficult but impossible—as if heaven, sun, ele-
ments, men had varied in motion, order, and power from what they were in
antiquity.

At first, Machiavelli appears to downplay the weakness and idleness fos-

tered by Christianity as the cause of modern peoples’ false knowledge of an-
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  119

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 mod-
ern 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 fa-
therland . . . [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 rec-
onciliation between Christianity and patriotic defense of the fatherland is pos-
sible, or even desirable. First, he gives no indication how or whether Christian-
ity 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 in-
tends 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 in-
sistence on the primacy of worldly strength and political vigor—over “idleness
and cowardice”—Machiavelli’s proposed reformation tacitly dismisses Chris-
tianity’s fundamental subordination of worldly security to transcendent spiritu-
ality. 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
120  Chapter 7

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 clar-
ity: 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 under-
standing 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 cele-
bration of our natural, uniquely human strengths. Christianity’s transcendent
spirituality challenges the classical-philosophic belief in humanity’s depen-
dence on a natural moral order that is reflected in conventional moral and po-
litical institutions.
This brings us back to Machiavelli’s teaching on the malleability of hu-
man nature, and the possibility that it was Christianity’s spiritual victory over
the ancient world that first brought to Machiavelli’s attention the deficien-
cies 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 mal-
leable than classical thought anticipated. Christianity not only challenged
the active political virtues promoted by classical thought and pagan moral-
ity, 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
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  121

more than simply a collection of substantive political maxims. It necessarily

involves a revolution in the manner we approach the study of politics. It re-
quires a wholly new, distinctly modern political science that entails a com-
plete theoretical reformulation of the way we conceive of human excellence,
such as cannot be found either in pagan religion or classical political philos-
ophy. 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 princi-
palities 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 neces-
sary 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 tradi-
tional distinction between virtue and vice. Following this passage, Machi-
avelli 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 “con-
fessed” 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 hu-
man 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.
122  Chapter 7

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 obli-
gation to God. This struggle within the Christian soul manifests itself in the
bad conscience. Because Christian virtue and the desire for worldly prosper-
ity conflict, humanity is in effect commanded by God to confess a belief in
virtues whose goodness and inherent desirability it cannot always see. Hu-
mans 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 ap-
parent good. Machiavelli’s new definition of genuine virtue as the ability
“not to be good” in the pursuit of political success must therefore be under-
stood 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 un-
Christian 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 pru-
dent men who were with the pope, including Machiavelli himself, noted the
“rashness” of the former and the “cowardice” of the latter; but they were oth-
erwise “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 re-
morseless—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-
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  123

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 hu-
man 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 focus-
ing on glory, the outward manifestation of a prince’s prudence in acting ac-
cording to the demands of the situation, Machiavelli tacitly dismisses the in-
terior 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 re-
place 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 bad-
ness, 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 defini-
tion of and opposition between virtue and vice to the pursuit of political
glory. Our understanding and judgment of virtue and vice must take its bear-
ings 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 pur-
sued 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
124  Chapter 7

our focus is on the distinction between Machiavelli and Xenophon, Machi-

avelli’s account of virtue must also be understood in the context of Aristo-
tle’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 ini-
tially seems to be an admonishment to a kind of “middle way” between ex-
treme 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. Machi-
avelli reminds us that one of Scipio’s most memorable accomplishments is hav-
ing 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 ex-
tremes. To be sure, as Machiavelli readily admits, such a “middle course” be-
tween 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 Machi-
avelli 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.
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  125

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 re-
duced 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 him-
self 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 utiliz-
ing “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 rem-
edy 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 re-
luctance 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 appro-
priate 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 them-
selves 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 encourage-
ment and education humanity can adequately satisfy its longing for a dis-
tinctly 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
126  Chapter 7

come into discord, unhappy. I judge this indeed, that it is better to be im-
petuous 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 in-
dulge 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 po-
litical and moral teaching; yet, Machiavelli’s promise of glory to those will-
ing to heed his call to arms does not exhaust his understanding of human ex-
cellence. 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 clas-
sical 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 sub-
ject 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 re-
newal of human vitality. Actually, it is Machiavelli’s very acceptance of our lim-
itations that establishes the practicality and efficacy of his approach to cultivat-
ing 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 polit-
ical 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 politi-
cal philosophy and Christianity, both of which cite the contingency of human
or political affairs as an indication of the ultimate limitations of human poten-
tial. From this, however, the latter two traditions conclude that political ex-
cellence 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, be-
yond the political world—to the life of detached philosophic contemplation in
the one case, and to the Heavenly Kingdom in the other. Machiavelli counters
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  127

by forcing us to confront our unrealistic beliefs in the omnipotence of univer-

sal, 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 ex-
cellence we can. We can neither secure the greatest virtues articulated by an-
cient 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 for-
tune, 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. In-
deed, those who recognize their limitations possess an inner freedom or self-
sufficiency that, precisely because it prevents them from attaching undue sig-
nificance to their successes and failures, liberates them from delusions about
their strengths—delusions that would otherwise compromise their sober as-
sessment of their actual abilities regarding the vital struggle for autonomous po-
litical dominion.

[G]reat men are always the same in every fortune; and if it varies—now by exalt-
ing 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 for-
tune 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 Xenophon-
tic 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 in-
dispensable 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
128  Chapter 7

character, as celebrated by Xenophon or Livy” (1980, 60). Yet he overlooks the Chris-
tian 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 Nico-
machean 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 hu-
man 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 neces-
sary 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 flexi-
bility” 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-
 Glory, Moral Innovation, and the Christian Prince  129

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 re-
publics. Geerkin asserts that Machiavelli’s account of the politically astute Moses and
the “warrior God of Exodus” provided him with “means helpful for reforming con-
temporary 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 po-
litical success depends on divine grace, e.g., De Grazia (1989, 30–87, 376–84), Ned-
erman (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 Machi-
avelli’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; faith-
lessness and faithfulness; effeminacy/pusillanimity and ferociousness/spiritedness; hu-
manity 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 ar-
dently moral predecessors recognize this fact about political life when they first ac-
knowledge 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).
130  Chapter 7

22. Consider Sullivan (1996, 162).

23. This phrase can also mean “one’s being good.” Ramsay’s difficulty with the im-
plications of Machiavelli’s position is typical of that of many scholars. She is not nec-
essarily 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 neces-
sary . . . to achieve the desired results” (183, emphasis added). According to her for-
mulation, Machiavelli’s teaching still takes its bearings from the supremacy of tradi-
tional notions of moral goodness.
24. Machiavelli himself invites such a comparison. Consider his allusion to Aris-
totle’s presentation of liberality in Prince 15: consistent with Aristotle’s account in
the Nicomachean Ethics (1119b20–1122a17), Machiavelli (initially) characterizes lib-
erality 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 emo-
tions, 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 good-
ness 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 considera-
tion of suffering (pavqh th:ß yuch:ß) as unessential (ouj periv tou: pravgmatoß) to rhet-
oric (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 id-
iom 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 Christ-
ian 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 hesita-
tion 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 contem-
porary communitarian scholars a crucial link in the Atlantic republican tra-
dition. As such, his writings have the potential to lead us to a more meaning-
ful “public philosophy,” and help us resurrect our capacity for the moral and
political virtues necessary for healthy self-government. Our question, how-
ever, 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 tra-
dition may recognize certain tensions and discrepancies between Machi-
avelli’s thought and that of the classical tradition, but they do not fully artic-
ulate 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 politi-
cal 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 institu-
tion of orders that were able to accommodate and redirect, as opposed to over-
come, the selfish interests of its citizens as both individuals and political par-
tisans. At the very least, it is doubtful that a resurrection of Machiavellian

131
132  Conclusion

republicanism would be sufficient for fostering the solidarity and selfless de-
votion to civic virtue that is missing in the contemporary liberal ethic of in-
dividual liberation.
But there is another, more important sense in which Machiavelli’s
thought poses a challenge to those seeking to articulate the connection be-
tween vigorous citizenship and our fulfillment as moral beings inclined to the
pursuit of human excellence. As we have seen, Machiavelli’s break from tra-
ditional 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 un-
derstanding of human virtue that supplants the teachings of classical politi-
cal 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 tempo-
ral 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 man-
ner 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 re-
garding 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 dis-
tance but inhabits the world from the start, we may find a clue to our condi-
tion 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 theo-
retical foundations of our political existence. In the end, however, the effect
of Machiavelli’s political teaching is a deliberate shrinking of the moral hori-
zon within which we deliberate about what is good for human beings as po-
 Conclusion  133

litical animals, as individuals capable of perfecting ourselves through the cul-

tivation 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 ex-
cellence that would encourage the politically ambitious to consider, and pos-
sibly to become enamored with, the transcendent virtues articulated in So-
cratic 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 Machi-
avelli’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 theo-
retical 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 al-
ready) 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 unsophisti-
cated understanding of humanity’s place in the world.1 To say that Machi-
avelli’s teaching may have led subsequent generations to a more limited no-
tion 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 dis-
tinction 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 require-
ments of effective politics. Recalling Machiavelli’s sober assessment in Dis-
courses III 31 of the limits of humanity’s capacity to conquer fortune, we see
134  Conclusion

that his understanding of human excellence is grounded not simply on ex-

pert 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 substan-
tive political teaching does not fully account for his own excellence as the
thinker behind the Discourses and The Prince.2 Despite Machiavelli’s lucid ar-
ticulation 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 intellec-
tual 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 be-
tween 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 ex-
ploration 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 at-
tempt 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 un-
derlying his harsh political teaching is a sternly benevolent concern with se-
curing 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 pragma-
tism 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 considera-
tion of the relationship between philosophy and the city. As reflected in
Xenophon’s understated style and apparent conservatism, classical philoso-
phy 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 es-
tablish himself as a more effective guide than conventional moral and polit-
ical institutions in securing the political goods most essential to human flour-
ishing? In this sense, the practical character of Machiavelli’s writings provide
a model for future philosophers, showing them the path to becoming essen-
tial advisors to the ambitious, and stern benefactors to humanity in general.
 Conclusion  135

By freeing the pursuit and articulation of political wisdom from the con-
straints of traditional morality, Machiavelli seeks to create an environment
in which individuals like himself can flourish, unafraid of the kind of perse-
cution 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 mo-
tivated by the requirements of knowledge itself. As a philosopher, Machi-
avelli 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 facul-
ties. But humanity’s limitations expose themselves only in the light of the ef-
fective 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 po-
tential 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 wis-
dom is valid only to the extent that it remains capable of articulating and re-
alizing the limited goods that are the objects of the rest of humanity. To un-
derstand 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 com-
pletely 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 [Decem-
ber 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
136  Conclusion

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 satisfac-
tions 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 philo-
sophic 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 wel-
fare. 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.
 

References

Alderioso, Felice. 1930. Machiavelli: L’Arte dello stato nell’ azione e negli scritti. Turin.
Ambler, Wayne H. 1996. On the Oeconomicus. In Xenophon: The Shorter Writings.
Edited by Robert C. Bartlett. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. 102–31.
Anderson, John Kinloch. 1974. Xenophon. London: Gerald Duckworth & Company
Limited.
Angelo, Sidney. 1969. Machiavelli: A Dissection. London: Victor Gollacz Ltd.
Arendt, Hannah. 1959. The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Baron, Hans. 1966. The Crisis of the Early Italian Renaissance. Princeton: Princeton
University Press.
Beiner, Ronald. 1993. Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Rousseau on Civil Religion. The Re-
view of Politics 55 (Fall): 617–38.
Berlin, Isaiah. 1980. The Originality of Machiavelli. In Against the Current. Edited by
Henry Hardy. New York: The Viking Press.
Bonadeo, Alfredo. 1973. Corruption, Conflict, and Power in the Works and Times of
Niccolò Machiavelli. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Bruell, Christopher. 1987. Xenophon. In History of Political Philosophy. Third Edition.
Edited by Leo Strauss and Joseph Cropsey. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Burckhardt, Jacob. 1950. The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy. Translated by S.
G. C. Middlemore. London: Phaidon.
Bury, J. B. 1909. The Ancient Greek Historians. New York: The Macmillan Company.
Butterfield, Herbert. 1962. The Statecraft of Machiavelli. New York: Collier Books.
Cantimori, Delio. 1987. Niccolò Machiavelli: Il politico e lo storico. Storia dell lettura
italiana: Il cinquecento. Edited by Natalino Sapengo. Milan.
Cassirer, Ernst. 1955. The Myth of the State. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor
Books.

137
138  References

Chabod, Federico. 1958. Machiavelli and the Renaissance. Translated by David Moore.
London: Bowes & Bowes.
Coby, Patrick. 1999a. Machiavelli’s Romans. Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books.
———. 1999b. Machiavelli’s Philanthropy. History of Political Thought XX (Winter):
604–26.
Colish, Marcia L. 1999. Republicanism, Religion, and Machiavelli’s Savanarolan
Moment. The Journal of the History of Ideas 60, vol. 4 (October): 597–616.
Croce, Benedetto. 1925. Elementi di politica. Bari.
Croiset, Alfred. 1873. Xénophon: son charactère et son talent. Toulouse: Chavin et fils.
Cromartie, Alan. 1998. Harrington Virtue: Harrington, Machiavelli and the Method
of the Moment. Historical Journal 41: 987-1010.
Danél, Adom D. 1997. A Case for Freedom: Machiavellian Humanism. Lanham, MD;
New York; London: University Press of America.
Danoff, Brian F. 2000. Lincoln, Machiavelli, and American Political Thought. Pres-
idential Studies Quarterly 30 vol. 2 (June): 290–311.
De Grazia, Sebastien. 1989. Machiavelli in Hell. Princeton: Princeton University
Press.
Delebecque, Eduoard. 1957. Essai sur la vie de Xénophon. Paris: Ernest Klinksieck.
de Sanctis, Francesco. n.d. History of Italian Literature. Translated by J. Redfern. 2
Volumes.
Drews, Robert. 1973. The Greek Accounts of Eastern History. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press.
Due, Bodil. 1989. The Cyropaedia: Xenophon’s Aims and Methods. Aarhus, Denmark:
Aarhus University Press.
Eichler, Gustave. 1880. De Cyrupaedia capito extremo. Leipzig.
Femia, Joseph. 2004. Machiavelli and Italian Fascism. History of Political Theory XXV
(Spring): 1-15.
Ferrari, Franco. 1995. Ciropedia. Milan: Rizzoli.
Fischer, Markus. 1997. Machiavelli’s Political Psychology. The Review of Politics 59,
no. 4 (Fall): 789–829.
Fleisher, Martin. 1972. A Passion for Politics: The Vital Core of the World of Machi-
avelli. In Machiavelli and the Nature of Political Thought. Edited by Martin Fleisher.
New York: Atheneum.
Fontana, Benedetto. 1999. Love of Country and Love of God: The Political Uses of
Religion in Machiavelli. The Journal of the History of Ideas 60, vol. 4 (October):
639-58.
Geerkin, John H. 1988. Machiavelli and the Golden Rule. Machiavelli Studies 2: 26-48.
———. 1999. Machiavelli’s Moses and Renaissance Politics. The Journal of the History
of Ideas 60, vol. 4 (October): 575–95.
Gera, Deborah Levine. 1993. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Style, Genre, and Literary Tech-
nique. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Gilbert, Allan H. 1968. Machiavelli’s Prince and Its Forerunners: The Prince as a Typ-
ical Book de Regimine Principum. New York: Barnes and Noble.
 References  139

Gilbert, Felix. 1939. The Humanist Concept of the Prince and The Prince of Machi-
avelli. The Journal of Modern History XI (December): 449–83.
———. 1965. Machiavelli and Guicciardini. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Glenn, Gary D. 1992. Strauss’s Hiero and Machiavelli’s Cyrus. In Politikos II: Educat-
ing the Ambitious. Edited by Leslie G. Rubin. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University
Press.
Goodwin, Charles Stewart. 1995. A Ressurection of the Republican Ideal. Lanham,
N.Y., London: University Press of America, Inc.
Grant, Alexander. 1878. Xenophon. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippencott.
Higgins, W. E. 1977. Xenophon the Athenian: The Problem of the Individual and Society
of the Polis. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Hirsch, Stephen. 1985. The Friendship of the Barbarians: Xenophon and the Persian Em-
pire. Hanover and London: University Press of New England.
Hodges, Donald C. 2003. Deep Republicanism: Prelude to Professionalism. Lanham,
Md.: Lexington Books.
Hulliung, Mark. 1983. Citizen Machiavelli. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Johnstone, Steven. 1994. Virtous Toil, Vicious Work: Xenophon on Aristocratic
Style. Classical Philology 89 (3): 219-240
Kocis, Robert. 1988. Machiavelli Redeemed: Reviving His Humanist Perspectives on
Equality, Power, and Glory. Bethlehem, Pa.: Lehigh University Press.
Leden, Michael Arthur. 2003. Machiavelli on Modern Leadership: Why Machiavelli’s
Iron Rules Are as Timely and Important Today as Five Centuries Ago. New York: Tru-
man Talley Books, St. Martin’s Press.
Lukes, Timothy J. 2004. Marshalling Machiavelli: Reassessing the Military Reflec-
tions. Journal of Politics 66 (4): 1089-1108.
Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1921. Il Principe di Niccolo` Machiavelli. Edited by Guiseppe Li-
sio. Florence.
———. 1950. The Discourses of Niccolò Machiavelli. 2 volumes. Edited and translated
by L. J. Walker. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
———. 1964. Legazioni e commisari. 2 volumes. Edited by Sergio Bertelli. Milan: Fel-
trinelli.
———. 1996. Discourses on Livy. Edited and translated by Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr.
and Nathan Tarcov. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
———. 1997a. Opere. Volume I. Edited by Corrado Vivanti. Torino: Einaudi-Gallimard.
———. 1997b. The Prince. Edited and translated by Angelo M. Codevilla. New Haven
and London: Yale University Press.
———. 1998. The Prince, 2nd ed. Edited and translated by Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr.
Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
Mansfield, Harvey C., Jr. 1978. Review of The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Po-
litical Thought and the Atlantic Tradition, by J. G. A. Pocock. American Political Sci-
ence Review 71: 1151-52.
———. 1979. Machiavelli’s New Modes and Orders: A Study of the Discourses on Livy.
Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
140  References

———. 1996. Machiavelli’s Virtue. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
Maynor, John W. 2003. Republicanism in the Modern World. Cambridge and New York:
Cambridge University Press.
McCormick, John P. 2003. Machiavelli Against Republicanism: On the Cambridge
School’s “Guicciardinian Moments” Political Theory 31, no. 5: 615-643.
Meinecke, Friedrich. 1965. Machiavellianism: The Doctrine of Raison d’Etat and Its
Place in Modern History. New York: Praeger.
Nadon, Christopher. 1996. From Republic to Empire: Political Revolution and the
Common Good in Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus. The American Political Science
Review 90 (June): 361–74.
———. 1996b. Aristotle and the Republican Paradigm: A Reconsideration of
Pocock’s Machiavellian Moment. The Review of Politics (Fall): 677–98.
———. 2001. Xenophon’s Prince: Republic and Empire in the Cyropaedia. Berkeley, Lon-
don, and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Nederman, Cary J. 1999. Amazing Grace: Fortune, God, and Free Will in Machi-
avelli’s Thought. The Journal of the History of Ideas 60, vol. 4 (October): 617–38.
Newell, W. R. 1983. Tyranny and the Science of Ruling in Xenophon’s Education of
Cyrus. The Journal of Politics 45: 889–906.
———. 1988. Machiavelli and Xenophon on Princely Rule: A Double-Edged En-
counter. Journal of Politics 50 (February): 108–30.
Olschki, Leonardo. 1945. Machiavelli the Scientist. Berkeley, Calif.: The Gillick Press.
Orwin, Clifford. 1978. Machiavelli’s Unchristian Charity. The American Political Sci-
ence Review 72: 1217–28.
Pangle, Thomas L. 1997. Trying to Revive Civic Virtue. Review of Michael J. Sandel,
Democracy’s Discontent: America in Search of a Public Philosophy. In Books in Canada
26 (number 2): 27–29.
Pangle, Thomas L., and Ahrensdorf, Peter J. 1999. Justice Among Nations: On the
Moral Basis of Power and Peace. Lawrence, Kans.: University of Kansas Press.
Parel, Anthony J. 1972. Commentary on Martin Fleisher’s “A Passion for Politics”:
The Vital Core of the World of Machiavelli. In Machiavelli and the Nature of Polit-
ical Thought. Edited by Martin Fleisher. New York: Atheneum.
———. 1991. The Question of Machiavelli’s Modernity. The Review of Politics 53
(Spring): 320–39.
———. 1992. The Machiavellian Cosmos. New Haven and London: Yale University
Press.
Patapan, Haig. 2003. “I Capitoli”: Machiavelli’s New Theogony. The Review of Poli-
tics 65, vol. 3 (Spring): 185–207.
Pitkin, Hanna Fenichel. 1984. Fortune Is a Woman: Gender and Politics in the Thought
of Niccolò Machiavelli. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of Califor-
nia Press.
Plamenatz, John P. 1992. Man and Society: A Critical Examination of Some Important
Social and Political Theories from Machiavelli to Marx. Volume I. Revised by M. E.
Plamenatz and Robert Wokler. London: Longman.
 References  141

Pocock, J. G. A. 1972. Custom & Grace, Form & Matter: An Approach to Machi-
avelli’s Concept of Innovation. In Machiavelli and the Nature of Political Thought.
Edited by Martin Fleisher. New York: Atheneum
———. 1975. The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic
Republican Tradition. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
———. 1985. Machiavelli in the Liberal Cosmos. Political Theory 13 (November):
559–74.
Price, Russell. 1973. The Senses of Virtù in Machiavelli. European Studies Review 3:
315-45.
Quadri, Goffred. 1971. Niccolò Machiavelli e la construzione politica della coscience
morale. 2nd ed. Florence: La Nuova Italia.
Raimondi, Ezio. 1977. Machiavelli and the Rhetoric of War. Modern Language Notes
92: 1-16.
Ramsay, Maureen. 1995. Machiavelli’s Political Philosophy in The Prince. In Niccolò
Machiavelli’s The Prince: New Interdisciplinary Essays. Edited by Martin Coyle.
Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.
Rebhorn, Wayne A. 1988. Foxes and Lions: Machiavelli’s Confidence Men. Ithaca:
Cornell University Press.
Ridolfi, Roberto. 1963. Life of Niccolò Machiavelli. Translated by Cecil Grayson.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Sage, Paula Windsor. 1991. Tradition, Genre, and Character Portrayal: Cyropaedia 8.
7 and Anabasis 1. 9. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 32 (Spring): 61–79.
———. 1994. Dying in Style: Xenphon’s Ideal Leader and the End of the Cyropaedia.
Classical Journal 90: 161-74.
Sandel, Michael J. 1996. Democracy’s Discontent: America in Search of a Public Philos-
ophy. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
Sasso, Gennaro. 1980. Niccolò Machiavelli: Storia del suo pensiero politico. Rev. ed.
Bologna: Mulino.
Skinner, Quentin. 1978. The Foundations of Modern Political Thought. Volume 1: The
Renaissance. Cambridge, London, and New York: Cambridge University Press.
———. 1981. Machiavelli. New York: Hill and Wang.
———. 1990. Machiavelli’s Discorsi and the Pre-Humanist Origins of Republican
Ideas. In Machiavelli and Republicanism. Edited by Gisela Bock, Quentin Skinner,
and Maurizio Viroli. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.
———. 1992. Machiavelli. In Great Political Thinkers. Edited by Keith Thomas. Ox-
ford and New York: Oxford University Press.
———. 2000. Machiavelli: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Strauss, Leo. 1939. The Spirit of Sparta or the Taste of Xenophon. Social Research 6
(November): 502–36.
———. 1970. Machiavelli and Classical Literature. In Review of National Literatures 1
(Spring): 7–25.
———. 1978. Thoughts on Machiavelli. Chicago and London: University of Chicago
Press. Original edition, 1958.
142  References

———. 1983. Xenophon’s Anabasis. In Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy. Edited

by Thomas L. Pangle. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Origi-
nally 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 Re-
consideration 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: Prince-
ton University Press.
Tatum, James. 1989. Xenophon’s Imperial Fiction: On the Education of Cyrus. Prince-
ton: 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 Machi-
avelli and Republicanism. Edited by Gisela Bock, Quentin Skinner, and Maurizio Vi-
roli. 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 Mar-
tin Fleisher. New York: Atheneum.
Xenophon. 1855. Cyropaedia or Institution of Cyrus and The Hellenics or Grecian His-
tory. 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.
 References  143

———. 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. Teub-
neri.
———. 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
145
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
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

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
Index  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 Michigan-
Dearborn, and California State University–San Bernardino. He is cur-
rently working on a book about the history of patriotism.

149