One of the oldest Roman traditions was the celebrations of the greats. Generations of Romans wrote and told stories of the great men and women of history—celebrating the things they did, the sacrifices they made, the virtues they embodied. Marcus Aurelius’ philosophy teacher, Sextus, was the grandson (or nephew) of Plutarch, who is perhaps the most widely read biographer of all time. His work on the Stoics, and of the eminent Greeks and Romans, were popular not just in ancient Rome, but in Shakespeare’s day, popular with the Founding Fathers, popular even today (we carry an edition at The Painted Porch). And Marcus himself, it looks like, kept his own version of this book, called Deeds of the Ancient Greeks and Romans, alongside his more famous Meditations, where he noted what he admired about his predecessors. “Nothing is as encouraging,” he would write in Meditations, “as when virtues are visibly embodied in the people around us, when we’re practically showered with them. It’s good to keep this in mind.” But what virtues did Marcus most often note down? What most inspired him? What was he trying to keep in mind? It wasn’t the conquests of Alexander. It wasn’t the brilliance of Plato. It wasn’t the speeches of Demosthenes. What Marcus took pains to note down over and over and over again were things like the generosity of his Mother—the way she seemed to be unable to even conceive of doing the wrong thing. He wrote of Antoninus’ dedication to his duty and “his altruism.” Of a different Alexander—in this case a literary critic—he noted how he was patient with people who made mistakes and how he always took the time to answer questions. From Sextus, Plutarch’s relative, he recognized how he got along with everyone and was “full of love.” We can say unequivocally that Marcus Aurelius was a collector of stories regarding people’s goodness. He took the time to write these things down so he would remember them and be inspired by them, so he could model his life after them. These stories made him better, reminded him of what his most important job in life was—to be a good person and work for the common good. He was “choosing his Cato’s,” as Seneca advised, finding the models to measure himself against. The Roman general Marcus Atilius Regulus had every reason to tell the Romans to accept Carthage's peace offer. Captured by the Carthaginians, he had languished in captivity for five long years. Then he was given an offer: go to Rome to negotiate a peace treaty and prisoner swap. If the Romans accepted the terms, Regulus would be free. But if they refused, he had to return to imprisonment. Regulus accepted, giving his word that he would come back if the Romans rejected the deal. Completely disregarding his own self-interest, Regulus recommended that the Roman Senate reject the peace offer. Since Carthage was weak—why else would they send him as leverage?—Rome, Regulus insisted, should press on and win the war. The Romans decided they would follow the advice, and so, Regulus packed his bags. Not to rejoin the Roman army but to return to captivity in Carthage. Even though Carthage was hundreds of miles away. Even though Regulus had suffered enough. Even though he had a family. Even though his word had been given under duress. Even though the Carthaginians were weak and reeling and highly unlikely to be able to enforce the terms. That was the deal. “I have sworn to them to return,” Regulus explained to friends who begged him to stay. “I will not transgress my oaths, not even when they have been given to enemies.” Regulus' story—adapted here from Right Thing, Right Now (which you can preorder right now)—is extreme. Most of us will never face a test of integrity as severe as his. But we face smaller tests every day. The deadline we set. The promise we made. The plans we agreed to. The event we said we’d attend. The price we shook on. The service we offered. And like Regulus could have, we can always find a good reason to break our word. The deadline was unrealistic anyways. The circumstances have changed. The plans were tentative. The weather is terrible. We just don’t want to anymore. These small tests and temptations are more consequential than we like to think. As Regulus explained, sure, if he went back, he alone would suffer. But if he broke his word, the whole country would suffer—because no one would trust the Romans anymore. In fact, that’s the truly selfless part of what he did. By returning, by keeping his word, generations knew that you could trust a Roman unto death. Seneca loved this story and was fond of telling it. It was, to him, the essence of the virtue of justice. The power of a single person to become heroic. The thing is, you don’t suddenly become a person who keeps their word even when given to enemies. That kind of person grows out of a lot of corresponding actions, a long history of keeping commitments, a lifelong habit of not transgressing on their oaths. And that’s what really makes small things truly no small thing, as the Stoics said. They add up. They grow and grow. They make the habit bonfire bigger and bigger. They confirm more and more what kind of person you are. |
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