And let us, too, adhere to this rule of not thinking anything an evil which is a general provision of nature; and let us assure ourselves, that if death is an evil, it is an eternal evil, for death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if death is a misery, there can be no end of that.
But why do I mention Socrates, or Theramenes, men distinguished by the glory of virtue and wisdom?
When a certain Lacedaemomian, whose name is not so much as known, held death in such contempt, that, when led to it by the ephori, he bore a cheerful and pleasant countenance; and, when he was asked by one of his enemies whether he despised the laws of Lycurgus, “On the contrary,” answered he, “I am greatly obliged to him, for he has amerced me in a fine which I can pay without borrowing, or taking up money at interest.” This was a man worthy of Sparta. And I am almost persuaded of his innocence because of the greatness of his soul.
Our own city has produced many such. But why should I name generals, and other men of high rank, when Cato could write that legions have marched with alacrity to that place from whence they never expected to return?
With no less greatness of soul fell the Lacedaemonians at Thermopylae, on whom Simonides wrote the following epitaph:
“Go, stranger, tell the Spartans, here we lie,
Who to support their laws dared boldly die.”
What was it that Leonidas, their general, said to them? “March on with courage, my Lacedaemonians. Tonight, perhaps, we shall sup in the regions below.” This was a brave nation while the laws of Lycurgus were in force.
One of them, when a Persian had said to him in conversation, “We shall hide the sun from your sight by the number of our arrows and darts,” replied, “We shall fight, then, in the shade.”
Do I talk of their men? How great was that Lacedaemonian woman, who had sent her son to battle, and when she heard that he was slain, said, “I bore him for that purpose, that you might have a man who dared die for his country!”
Ultimately, I discover how the outcome of my life is a result of the choices I make, not of the events that may or may not come my way. And behind every small choice, however insignificant it may appear, stands a larger judgment, about the sort of man I wish to be. The tiny bits are but instances of the grander direction.
Do I follow the path of an Anytus or a Socrates? Will I assess myself by the goods of the body or by the goods of the soul? The calculating man might win in the courts, while the wise man can meet his end with serenity, in the knowledge he has done his best to act with virtue. Will something else come after? Perhaps the philosopher has an inkling, though he feels no need to insist upon the matter.
As Cicero continues with further examples of those who did not fear death, precisely because they understood the purpose of life, I must once again remind myself how the strength he describes comes from an inner peace, not from any desire to dominate. The only “toughness” that counts is one of prudent conviction, where hatred has no place. Moral courage may well include physical courage, and yet it is so much more than that.
The Spartans, for example, are often presented as cold and heartless, and while their traditions included the most rigorous of bodily hardships, there was a profound devotion to conscience that drove them on. Yes, I will even call it love, not in a sentimental or romantic sense, but as a complete commitment of the will, a responsibility to duty expressed in unconditional self-giving.
How else, after all, could the accused choose to freely accept his punishment, showing gratitude rather than resentment? In giving his life, he could pay the compensation for a crime and not be bound to any further debt.
How pitiful that even when I know full well that I have done wrong, I still feel angry at getting caught!
Though we usually think of the great differences between the Spartans and the Athenians, I see here a remarkable similarity to Socrates, who in the Crito explains why he refuses to escape from prison. If his fellow citizens have treated him unjustly, Socrates will not act unjustly in return, and his reverence for their bond does not alter out of convenience.
Hollywood has sadly reduced the story of Thermopylae to an archetype of chest-thumping, when what should be most inspiring is how a good man will offer up everything else, including life itself, to do what is right. Some speak of “suffering” death, and here we have the Spartans who consider it an honor.
Meanwhile, I grumble about how unfair it is that I have caught the flu this week!
It’s in the attitude, in deciding whether to see something as a burden or as an opportunity. All of living, and of dying, is like that.
And it isn’t just about some sort of masculine achievement. The Spartan mother was first and foremost proud of her fallen son for living well.
I recall, with a combination of amusement and cringing, how a classmate of mine, on fire with this or that political fad, began to lecture a woman at a local pub about how she was a victim of an oppressive system.
“Your husband didn’t have to die in Vietnam, they made him die for nothing!”
For a brief moment, I was sure she would snap his neck. Instead, she offered a few choice words:
“Young man, my husband didn’t die for the government, or for a piece of cloth, or for some big idea the politicians came up with. He died because he thought it best to help his neighbors, especially the ones who couldn’t stand up for themselves. He had this crazy notion that anything worth living for is worth dying for. You should try it sometime.”
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