Protagoras Part One

Protagoras, the celebrated sophist has come to Athens and Hippocrates is so excited by his arrival and the chance to hear him that he proceeds at once to Socrates and give him the great news. It is very early and sun has not yet risen. Plato would have posterity believe that Socrates can drink copious amounts of wine without getting drunk and go without sleep for days and while he doesn’t admit outright that Hippocrates catches our hero asleep, the fact that he doesn’t aver that Socrates was already awake and bustling about indicates that he did.

In another refreshing change from some of the other dialogues, Socrates isn’t agog at Protagoras wisdom.
He concedes that the sophist may possess great learning and ability but he remains doubtful that he can teach Hippocrates to be wise and he is worried that the young man is placing himself so heedlessly in the hands of a teacher he’s never met. As soon as the sun is up, he and Hippocrates head over to see Protagoras for themselves.

Plato has brought himself to admit that Socrates does sleep, but in compensation he makes some of the sophists very sedentary indeed. One of them, Prodicus, is still abed, bundled in sheepskins and blankets, but holding forth from that supine posture. Protagoras himself is on his feet, walking back and forth, his listeners trailing him, parting when he turns around so not to get in his way and falling in behind him again like a school of fish.

Plato is poking fun of the sophists but his ridicule is straightforward, without the disguise of feigned veneration, and the picture he’s drawn is amusing without being spiteful. Socrates himself doesn’t believe excellence can be taught but he defers to Protagoras learning and experience and will change his mind if Protagoras can prove that he can instill virtue in his pupils. He doesn’t flatter Protagoras and beg him to share his wisdom, but admitting his own reservations, he asks how this course of study will benefit Hippocrates.

Upon this invitation, Protagoras holds forth at length but in a manner selected by his listeners. He asks whether they prefer that he tell a story or expound an argument. Men, women, and children alike relish stories, and the ominous phrase ‘expound an argument’ forebodes that this argument will be abstruse and soporofic. It is somewhat surprising that his audience leaves the choice up to Protagoras.

Protagoras picks the story and that story turns out to be the one of Prometheus and Epimetheus. The myth is well known and we can dispense with a full retelling. Yet in this version, fire was not enough and despite being able to huddle around bonfires and brandish torches, they were still at the mercy of wild beasts. They were helpless because they were solitary and they could not band together for their common protection. When they banded together, they injured one another and so that they might gather themselves into groups, Zeus was forced to give them the supplementary gift of citycraft.

This citycraft is a skill originally dispensed by Zeus but as a skill it is teachable. Unlike every other skill it must be learned by every citizen. No citizen is faulted for not knowing how to play the lyre or sculpt statues but those who are unjust and persist in their injustice are either cast out or killed. Because justice is teachable and injustice can be corrected, the unjust are deemed worthy of blame. There are defects of the body which are the result of birth or chance, and those who are blind or crippled are not blamed for their condition. The unjust are blamed because they can learn to be better but don’t bother to reform themselves.

The unjust are reviled, shunned, and severely punished and so all parents do their utmost to bring their children up to be just. The Prisoner’s Dilemna and Game Theory teach that the optimal course for a group is tit for tat. But the best thing for any one individual is to betray the rest and benefit over and over. To protect the interests of the group, betrayal is marked and remembered and it is repaid. Thieving and aggression cannot be tolerated. The individual is forced to cooperate and sacrifice, and those who are unwilling to do so are killed or driven away.

For our ancestors on the savanna, no single member of the band can long survive alone among the ferocious predators and hardships of the wilderness, and exile means a quick and ugly death. The band itself is only barely surviving, always hungry and close to starvation, menaced by predators much bigger, faster, and deadlier than the weak, slow, naked, ungainly bipeds who must resort to tools and weapons to fend them off. The stakes are life and death and they are all so close to the edge that they can’t put up with any nonsense.

The band makes some provision for the sick and the injured but all must pull their own weight. Those who feign illness and injury to get out of work will be found out. Only those who do their share of the work get their share of the reward. He who will not work, will not eat. The rest of the mothers will watch the young of one of their number while she sleeps, and she in turn will take on these babysitting duties when it is her turn. The sick and the injured will be fed and nursed to recovery and he will do the same for his fellows when they are struck down. The hunters share their meat with the gatherers, and the gatherers turn over their roots, tubers, and berries to the hunters.

The society is ruled by fairness and equity and the penalties for harming the group or shirking are dire. The members of the band make it very plain when they are dissatisfied with one of their own. They gossip incessantly discussing the faults and failings of those not present. Every member is hungry and every member is tired. They’ve all loafed at their work, snatched the choicest cut of meat, pleaded off sick when they may have taken part. It is crucial to their survival that they monitor how widely these acts of selfishness have been marked and how bitterly they’re resented. A large part of our brain is devoted to reading facial expressions and bodily demeanor. When our fellows scowl at us, when they glance at us and huddle in conference but fall silent when we come near, then we know that we should work harder than anybody else, give a portion of our food away to somebody needy, assume the position of greatest danger during the hunt. We must outdo ourselves to win back the grace and favor of the group. If we don’t we may be expelled, doomed to wander the grasslands alone until thirst, hunger, or some huge predator put an end to our exile.

These skills allow us to work together in groups and for almost all of us they are innate. There are some who, by birth or chance, are born unable to read faces or understand the feelings and intentions of those around us. Yet almost all of us know when we’re being thoughtless, lazy, or greedy and we are perfectly aware that when we’re caught out our fellows are angry and disgusted with us.

Pericles has been mentioned several times before as an individual who was remarkable for his citycraft. Yet his citycraft was a very different thing. He wasn’t accepted, he was preeminent. He wasn’t a member of the band, he was the leader. He was above the rest of the Athenians and he had correspondingly exalted dreams for his city. He didn’t aim for Athenians to have enough to eat and live in safety. He wanted them to dominate the other states of Greece, to build astounding monuments at their expense, to take more than their share and to live at ease while the rest labored to support them.

He distinguished himself from the rest of the Athenians with a curious deportment. On the savannah, the disruptive must be met with snarls and cowed instantly. Athens was so rich and secure that this was no longer necessary. As Pericles was heading home, a stranger who had a grudge against him began following him screaming threats and obscenities, tottering after him and abusing him all the way to his door. Pericles showed not the least discomposure at any of this, and when he was under his own roof he sent one of his servants out to see the man home and light his way, since it was growing dark and the streets were soon to become unsafe.

Pericles deliberately departed from the behavior necessary to survive in one of the primate bands of the savanna. He didn’t try to fit in; he did the very opposite. In his comportment, he was haughty and oblivious to the expressions and feelings of those around him. He was too lofty and noble to lower himself to tit for tat. He acted superior to the other Athenians and believing him to be superior, they chose him to lead them again and again. This superiority will raise feelings of jealousy. Aristides was acknowledged to be the justest man in Athens and he was so respected for his virtue that he came to be resented for it and he was exiled. Men who try to rise above their fellows risk ostracism for this preeminence.

Men who eschew this primitive citycraft believe they’ve attained a second and higher citycraft, one that nowadays is usually called statecraft. Pericles was convinced that he alone saw the true destiny of Athens, and that destiny was grasping and shirking on a scale that no single malcontent could ever aspire to. The rest of Greece was to pay and labor to support Athens so that the Athenians could be set free to achieve something far greater than mere survival. There was one great obstacle to this dream, Athens one rival, Sparta.

The two cities must go to war and Pericles planned this war far in advance. He knew how much money there was in the treasury and he plotted how much they will have to spend per year if they restrict themselves to a purely defensive strategy. He plotted how long the Spartans will batter against the Long Walls before they grow weary of their fruitless assault and agree to peace. He tried to guess how much food they’d need to store and how likely their enforced allies were to revolt. In the end he was wrong. The Spartans were more tenacious, the Athenians more impulsive, the allies more aggrieved than he planned. And he never counted on the plague that ended up killing him and so many of the citizens who followed him.

Yet this kind of statecraft does seem like something teachable, if not by Protagoras, then by someone else. It’s a compound of economics, statistics, probability, political science, and military strategy, but it is a science of some kind. Could Pericles’ calculations be improved upon, and if so, how? Can experience fix the numbers so the outcome is predicted correctly? Is the problem beyond the calculating capacity of a human brain but tractable to a supercomputer? If RAND had been on hand to counsel Pericles, could he have beaten the Spartans?

Whatever the answer, these sort of war games are far from what Protagoras or Socrates had in mind when they spoke of virtue. They will go on to consider what virtue is and how it relates to its components but that will have to wait til later.

Federalist Eight

Having treated of the likelihood and the causes of wars between the States, Hamilton treats of the effects these wars will have on the condition and constitution of the disunited States. Before enumerating the dangers disciplined professional armies pose to liberty, Hamilton feels it only fair to concede some of the benefits they confer to the general peace:

The disciplined armies always kept on foot on the continent of Europe, though they bear a malignant aspect to libertyt and oeconomy, have notwithstanding been productive of the signal advantage, of rendering sudden conquests impracticable, and of preventing that rapid desolation, which used to mark the progress of war, prior to their introduction. The art of fortification has contributed to the same ends. The nations of Europe are incircled with chains of fortified places, which mutually obstruct invasion. Campaigns are wasted in reducing two or three frontier garrisons, to obtain admittance into an enemy’s country. Similar impediments occur at every step, to exhaust the strength and delay the progress of an invader. Formerly an invading army would penetrate into the very heart of a neighbouring country, almost as soon as intelligence of its approach could be received; but now a comparatively small force of disciplined troops, acting on the defensive with the aid of posts, is able to impede and finally to frustrate the enterprises of one far more considerable. The history of war, in that quarter of the globe, is no longer a history of nations subdued and empires overturned, but of towns taken and retaken, of battles that decide nothing, of retreats more beneficial than victories, of much effort and little acquisition.

The description Hamilton gives of European warfare in the late eighteenth century is quite accurate. The states of Europe had made their wars smaller in scope, limited in objective, and far less costly in loss of life and damage to property. Hamilton believes these conditions came about because these nations fight with tightly disciplined and superbly trained professional armies, rather than mercenaries, irregulars, or volunteer militias. The inefficiencies and eccentricities of the firearms available to those armies encouraged the use of drilled full-time soldiers.

How and why the continental powers managed to leash the hounds of war will be taken up elsewhere. But these limitations were the result of convention, ultimately achieved and precariously maintained by the common agreement of these same powers. These powers regarded one another as neighbors, equals, and in that they were similarly constituted and governed, nearly as kin. Their alliances and enmities were passing things, and none of them ever imagined themselves as fundamentally different from the rest. This self-imposed restraint was soon to be shook off. In the wars to come nations will be subdued and empires overturned. The battles to come will come with much effort, much acquisition and even more carnage.

Hamilton never imagined Jena, Friedland, Leipzig, or any of the other ghastly battles that lay in the future. If he was too sanguine in assuming that European warfare had been tamed, he made up for this with dire forebodings of the likely savagery of North American warfare. He laments the lack of fortresses and assumes that inroads will be easily made, but Edward Braddock, could he be summoned from the grave as Saul summoned Samuel, might point out that the vast, primeval forests could prove as impassible as the fortress lines of the Low Countries. Hamilton predicts that conquest will be easy to be made but difficult to be retained but the redcoats tramped up and down the wilderness, if this can be construed as ‘conquest’, and were little disposed to retain these lonely stretches of bog and wood.

Ultimately State fought State in a civil war, yet despite Sherman’s exaggerated and dangerously inflammatory pronouncements, it was not pure hell, at least not to civilians. Sherman’s marches wrought destruction on crops, livestock, barns, and railroad ties, but the persons and lives of the civilian population were almost universally respected. By contrast, in the pacification Vendee, the Peninsular War, the 1812 and 1941 invasions of Russia, standing European armies, not bloodthirsty fanatics handed weapons, not predatory mecenaries, but clerks, gardeners, seminary students, and young men called out of every one of the gentle callings of peace, raped women, slaughtered prisoners, and perpetrated atrocities Europe hadn’t witnessed since the Wars of Religion.

Bodiam Castle, East Sussex, UK

Yet all this lay in the future and not even a gaze as perspicacious and insightful as Hamilton’s can see what lies ahead. It is easy to mistake a temporary state of affairs for a necessary and permanent one, and it is just as easy to mistake a local condition, grown and nurtured exclusively in its native soil, for a universal one. Having made the first sort of error, Hamilton now makes the second. Continental powers sharing long borders with powerful, irascible, greedy neighbors, needed to maintain large standing armies to defend themselves. The kings of the European continent held a direct and personal control over large bodies of men, unlike their ancestors who relied on inconstant and dangerous feudal intermediaries. It was the cannon that allowed kings to break the independent power of counts, barons, and dukes. Cannon could batter down the high, thick walls of their fastnesses and the King of France need no longer suffer the Duke of Burgundy as his equal. The king retains the services of these nobles but they now grace his court rather than curb his power or trouble his rule. They yet command armies, but as the king’s marshals, entrusted with the king’s troops. Because of these armies and their artillery, the great lords were still exalted but no longer mighty. The condition of the smallfolk changed little. They were no freer nor more servile than they had been before, but the lives of those fortunate enough to live away from contested borders or channels of invasion may have been rendered far more peaceful. No more were they to be swept away or crushed when caught in the path of what Will Durant called ‘lordly strife’.

The most fragmented of all these potent kingdoms in geography, and the scantiest in territory was Prussia, and to counter these disabilities she fielded the proudest, most brutally disciplined, and overweening of all the standing armies. England was free of these porous Continental borders; she barely fielded an army at all, and the English neither loved nor feared the soldiery. She did maintain the world’s greatest navy but a navy, no matter how fearsome, must keep to deep water and is of no use in subduing a contumacious populace. The English were certain of two great truths: they were much freer than the abject nations of the Continent, and their King had a much smaller army than any of the Continental monarchs. These two truths were indissolubly and forever linked in their minds. They could not rightly say if the power of the Louis of the hour reigning across the Channel was absolute because he commanded a mighty host, or whether he commanded a mighty host by dint of his absolute power, but to bother considering the question was as fruitless as pondering the priority of the chicken and the egg. The freedom of the English people and a puny and despised standing army went hand in hand.

Hamilton was born and bred in this assumption, and he asserts that war increases the executive authority at the expense of the legislative. More recent history has offered the instructive examples of states that have maintained considerable standing armies and yet retained their constitutional balance and held on to their freedoms. Moreover, some executives have taken on powers traditionally and constitutionally reserved to the legislature during times of peace. It is perhaps not war but the apprehension of danger and the fear and uncertainty that follow, which allow the executive to grow more powerful than it has been or should be. We must remember that war is only one of the Horsemen, and that in the face of famine, pestilence, poverty, revolution, natural disasters, or any of the innumerable calamities that afflict this world, people will give up their liberties for their lives. It would be wise to accept and provide against these inevitable executive encroachments and perhaps come up with some periodic and regular mechanism to roll them back.


When Socrates was found guilty of refusing to recognize the gods and corrupting the youth and condemned to death, he was guarded but loosely, and his judges had hoped that he’d escape and flee Athens forever. His friends wondered that he seemed resolved to die when he might yet live by slipping away quietly. Socrates knew that his flight would make it seem that the charges against him were just, and in the Phaedo he explains why he was prepared to die. He begins by asking whether a philosopher should concern himself with the pleasures of the body: food, drink, fine clothes, or sex. His interlocutors almost invariably share his premises and supply him with the answers he’s seeking, and in this case, they don’t disappoint. They agree that he should gratify the body only as far as it’s unavoidable. Socrates then asks if the body is a help or a hindrance in the acquisition of wisdom, reminding his listeners of the fallibility of the senses and the distraction of the appetites. In chorus, it’s agreed that the body is a hindrance to the acquisition of wisdom. In the end, it’s borne out that the soul comes to wisdom when it is freed from the body, and it apprehends truth clearly and fully only when discarnate.

In the supposition that the highest endeavor of the human soul is intellectual and in the denigration of matter, this is the epitome of Plato’s thought. The one point that’s curious and seems out of place is the qualification that the philosopher should gratify the body only when, out of necessity, he must concern himself with the corporeal. Why should the philosopher bother with the corporeal at all? Imagine a scholar who works in a dingy chamber, studying all day long in the search for wisdom. This sage wishes to study deep into the night, snatching only such sleep as he cannot do without. Yet he is given only one hour of illumination. He has very powerful electric light at his disposal, and he may read in perfect ease, but for only one hour every evening before he’s plunged into darkness. When will he turn on this light? Since he wants to study without interruption, he’ll wait to avail himself of this short period of illumination for as long as possible. As the afternoon wears into night, the light dims as the sun sets, he’ll pick up his books from off the table and carry them over to the window, and here he’ll stand on tiptoe, holding his nose right up to the pages, angling the volume this way and that to catch the last rays. Yet the sun will sink below the horizon and all sunlight will be lost to him. Then and only then will he carry his books back to his table, flick the switch, and bathe his chamber in the short brilliance allotted to him. Once this precious allowance is used up, he’s swallowed up in darkness, and no more study is possible, will he resign himself to sleep.


What will happen if the restriction is lifted, and he’s given as much electricity as he wants? The bulbs will never burn out, and he may keep his chamber continuously flooded with the brightest light. Will he bother to huddle at the window and try to peer at the pages under a dim crepuscular glow? No, of course not. He’ll stay at the table, overhead lights blazing, and he’ll study until he’s so tired that he falls asleep and his forehead lands on the pages. In his all-consuming, unquenchable thirst for truth, this scholar is much like Plato’s philosopher. As he tries to make out the truth under the dying orange rays of dusk, he’s like the sage in his prison of flesh. Fooled by illusion and perspective, torn by lust, hunger, and thirst, he’s hampered in his search. As he flicks the switch and turns the dusk to noon, he’s like the soul freed of the body and bathing under the radiance of the forms in themselves.

The philosopher will want to leave the body as quickly as possible, and released he may apprehend the truth in all its purity. What will stop him? Why will he stay alive? Why will he feed, clothe, and look after the body which is an affliction, a bondage, a durance? Hamlet furnishes a reason:

To be, or not to be,-that is the question:-whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?-To die,-to sleep,-no more; and by a sleep say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,-‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die,-to sleep;-to sleep! Perchance to dream;-ay there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause: there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would pains and fardels bear to grunt and seat under an weary life, but that the dread of something after death,-the undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns,-puzzles the will and makes us bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

We all dread death. Plato may lecture on the soul, and wring an agreement that it is invariable and indissoluble, yet these eristics do nothing to allay our dread. Montaigne recommends a study of death, its causes and circumstances. We may familiarize ourselves with death, yet the viewing of corpses, an inquest into mortal accidents, the study of the physiology of the body and its innumerable frailties, will seem to confirm and redouble our terror rather than dispel it. When we look into that gray, ashen, unmoving face, we’d ask of it mysteries it can never tell. Those lips will never part again and their secrets will be carried into the beyond. Socrates may quiz and tease Simmias and Cebes until the hemlock carries him off, but in our heart of hearts we remain unconvinced. To study philosophy is to learn to live. This seems poor stuff; an obvious antithesis. How very trite; a platitude fit for a greeting card or bumper sticker.

We cling to life no matter how miserable it may be. A few, in the grip of a terrible depression, afflicted with a mortal, incurable, and agonizing disease, engulfed in scandal, shame, and ruin, do end their own lives but those left behind feel somehow abandoned. They should not have borne their misery silently and alone. They should have taken counsel, and almost all may have been swayed from such an awful and final step. Those hopelessly and mortally ill may do well to die on their own terms, and save themselves these last pains, losses, and degradations. Yet even in these cases we are deeply torn. Why are we so tenacious of life? Few of us seriously fear the torments of an afterlife. We may regret our sins and petty cruelties but we don’t anticipate being sunk in some malebolge. Only those of us in the worst extremity will seek death to flee the fears and pains of life. Hamlet listed many pains and fardels, and from our own bitter history we may supply thousands more, yet we bear them. We don’t balance our pains against our pleasures, like numbers in red and black, written down and added up in a ledger. Our hearts don’t beat, our lungs don’t draw in breath, simply because our joys in this life outbalance our miseries. There is no list of pros and cons and we carry on because we’re stubborn in our habit of living.

We all know that we’re all going to die. Writers may describe the young as thinking they’ll live forever, but even in our youth we don’t really believe that. Young or old, we’re aware of our mortality but knowledge comes in many weights and shades. We all know that we won’t live forever, but we live like we will all the same.

Some philosophers grow very cross with this careless frivolity. Men and women feast, and drink, and laugh, and fuck like they have not a care in the world. They do this to distract them from their own death. Their end is coming. They will soon be no more. They cannot bear up under this horrible certainty and so they try to lose themselves in heedless mirth and debauchery. This is wrong. Men and women don’t make merry to hide their own oncoming death. They know they’re doomed and nothing could ever hide this from their gaze or distract them from their terror if they couldn’t master themselves by their own strength. They know full well but they live with the knowledge. They can gaze into the darkness but they summon their will and they look away. They don’t forget. They know and the knowledge never leaves them, but they are the knower, they are the holders and the masters of this truth. They eat and drink and make merry because it’s fun, and though their joy is short, it is yet theirs, and nothing, not even death, will take it from them.

Some of these indignant philosophers aren’t content to scorn these buoyant souls as fools but will also attaint them as cowards. Anybody who loves his own life makes himself a hostage to fortune. Only somebody who can quit this world without regret can be considered truly free. Most of us cling to this life and when we are dragged from this world, our nails will dig furrows in the ground. Yet for the sake of children, loved ones, friends, family or country, some of us are still perfectly willing to lay down all their joys in this life. It isn’t a sacrifice to throw off what is sordid and worthless, especially when we gain something of inestimable value in return. It is a sacrifice, the greatest of sacrifices, to give up all that is precious, every hope and bliss, so that those we love may continue in their enjoyment.

Sultans, Red Weddings, and Stern Measures

Hard men are sometimes called upon to do distasteful things that the soft and foolish reprehend as treacherous and cruel. Tywin Lannister encouraged Walder Frey to murder guests he’d taken under his own roof and with whom he’d broken bread. Within his own circle, he was unapologetic:

Explain to me why it’s nobler for ten thousand men to die in battle than for a dozen to be killed at dinner.

He’d committed an outrage against all the laws of gods and men, something abominable and unforgivable, but in so doing he’d taken a few lives to save many. In fairness, he was not so disingenuous as to claim he’d been moved by tenderness. He went ahead with an atrocity to end a war and strike down foes that were a grave threat to his family. He didn’t care about the fate of foot-soldiers, either his or the Starks. He did care about the survival of his house and his heirs. His daughter and grandson may gloat but he remained grim, understanding that odium will always attach itself to such treachery but still willing to bear that odium.

There is a dour altruism in paying an awful price to buy life and peace, but that altruism is merely folly if the price doesn’t yield the projected return. The blood is spilled and the price is paid irrevocably and finally; the blessings, however, are all to follow. Will they follow?

The object was to teach his enemies a lesson. Let the Northerners remember what happens when they march against the South. Their failure is assured and the penalties will be dreadful. The induction should be simple and obvious, but different minds may trace the same premises to very different conclusions. In reviewing their disasters and defeats, even the downtrodden will find some excuse, some extenuation, and they are sure that one small correction will lead to victory and the retrieval of their fortunes.

If the vanquished owe their defeat to being outwitted or betrayed, if they can ascribe their failures to bad luck, they will easily convince themselves that this time they’ve learned, this time they won’t make the same mistakes, this time they will win. Only the most daunting and inarguable arithmetic can surely and perpetually dismay a defeated yet still formidable foe that further resistance is futile. Only if they see that they must pit hundreds against thousands, knives against guns, boys against men, will they submit.

Tywin seeks to inflict suffering and loss so bitter that his foes will never dare to face him or his again. Yet men and women feel fairness and unfairness more keenly than good or ill. A solitary animal will want a warm, dry den and a full belly but a social animal will compare his lot with his fellows. Men and women are social animals not solitary ones, and while they want comfort, pleasure, and nourishment, they want to have their due share of these even more. If they have food and shelter, they will still be dissatisfied if others have more for no good reason. They will readily lose some if their rivals lose more.

No true utilitarian can ever be envious but human beings are envious. In our depths, we are more envious than we are covetous. We want more, but we also want our neighbors to have less. If we harbor such rancor for our neighbors what may we be willing to suffer to harm our enemies? We will plunge down into perdition if we can drag those we hate down with us. The winds in Europe blow from west to east, but in the First World War it was the Germans who first unleashed poison gas. Stymied and furious, and giving no thought what they were bringing down on themselves, they broke open the pestilential vials and the cloud of poison crawled over to the French lines. The Allies had hesitated to use so noxious a weapon, but the barrier had fallen, the seal was broken, and from then on, the winds wafted their own deadly clouds into the strongholds of the Germans and held the enemy poison off.

To a rational mind it is the numbers that tell. Poets and boys may want to festoon war with nonsense like honor, but that’s like frilling iron with lace. Shrewd men, hard men, know that it’s resources and money that win wars. Yet to go to war is in itself irrational. Whether it’s because they’re deluded, foolish, or just spiteful, men will hurl themselves to destruction against all odds and all reason. We are too mad and too unpredictable to be so easily cowed or predicted.

It was customary among the Ottoman Turks for the Sultan who’d just taken the throne upon the death of his predecessor to execute every other claimant. These murders were lamentable but they were preferable to the civil wars that would have resulted from the contention of several aspiring Sultans. This custom sacrificed fewer than a dozen to save thousands.

This purge followed every accession and so it came to be anticipated. Mustapha, the presumed successor to Suleiman, the greatest of all the Sultans that had come before and who came after, had been borne by his favored concubine Gulbehar. Yet despite her proven fertility and long-standing affection, she was ultimately replaced in the Sultan’s heart by a newcomer named Roxelana. Roxelana had two sons of her own with Suleiman and she knew that when he died and Mustapha took the crown, they both were doomed. If they were to live, Mustapha must die. Sharing Suleiman’s bed and his counsels, she had many opportunities to bring the father to fear the son as a usurper.

Old and infirm, Suleiman had remained behind in the capital while Mustapha led the armies. As they lay together, Roxelana murmured to him of Mustapha’s great ability and popularity with the troops. Suleiman’s Vizier, a man Roxelana had raised to power, seconded her warnings and reported that the soldiers were more than ready to cast off a Sultan who could barely mount a horse and kept to his seraglio with one much younger, stronger, and already with them in the field. Suleiman became fearful and wondered why Mustapha would squander the most promising seasons of his reign waiting for his aged father to die on his own when his rule might begin at once.

Roused to action, Suleiman gathered a host and set forth. He made camp at Eregli and summoned his son and heir. Mustapha’s friends and followers begged him not to go but he answered that if he were to lose his life he can do no better than give it back to him from whom he’d received it. He obediently went to his father’s pavilion where he was met instead by three mutes with bowstrings and strangled.

Since it had become plain that the question of the succession was to be decided while the Sultan yet lived, Roxelana’s two sons were soon battling. They fought and the cruel and debauched Selim triumphed over the amiable and capable Bayezid. The decision of battle had awarded the throne to Selim and for the peace of the Empire, Bayezid had to die. The fugitive had taken refuge in the court of the Shah of Persia, and after extended negotiations, Suleiman was obliged to pay his arch-enemy an enormous sum for the privilege of executing his own son.