A conflict of interests arises between A and B; A attacks B, they fight it out, and at the end, A carries the day. What conclusion(s) could be drawn out of this abstract?
One could reasonably conclude that A was stronger than B and therefore capable of defeating his opponent. Would it be fair to also infer that A's cause was the righteous one? Was A the Party of Good that prevailed over B, the Party of Evil? Not quite, for it is self-evident that being stronger, smarter, prettier, etc. would not in and of itself make you a moral person or transform your conduct into an ethical one. Sounds pretty straightforward, but is it?
The story of little David smiting colossal Goliath epitomizes the victory of right over wrong. The virtuous may suffer temporary setbacks, but at the end of the day, he has to win. Of course we may stretch this argument by stipulating that, even if one does not get his/her grievances redressed in this life, surely a day of reckoning would set everything straight in the afterlife. For this post, however, I would like to stick to what is tangible and suspend theological nuances and metaphysics.
The Book of Samuel reveals another aspect of King David, not as noble but an uninteresting one nonetheless. Uriah the Hittite was a soldier in David's army whose wife, Bathsheba, was coveted by the slayer of Goliath. To satisfy his lust, David had to arrange for the murder of the husband. The sordid affair is detailed in the Holy Bible for those interested in saucy tales. Setting aside all ethical arguments and counterarguments, my purpose of relating this story is merely to illustrate what I think is the truer nature of ANY successful ruler, something that was masterfully elaborated by Machiavelli in his famous political manual, “The Prince.” Irrespective of whether David, Goliath, Bathsheba, or Uriah were historical figures or—far more likely—fictional characters, the story retains its validity as to what makes a despot good or bad, or, for the purpose of simplification, a success versus a failure. David, a murderer and an adulterer, is a far more plausible template for a ruler than David, the dashing youth gallantly risking his life in what seemed like a hopeless battle won against overwhelming odds.
Powerful men or women are neither honest nor kindly. They may be bright, good-looking, charming, and charismatic... but decent they are not, and honesty is out of the question. They usually are opportunistic, ruthless, perfidious, mendacious, untrustworthy... The latter qualities are not necessarily bad in a ruler so long as they work to the advantage of his subjects, at least the largest possible number of them. My dad used to tell me an axiom he attributed to ʾAnṭūn Saʿādā—founder of the SSNP—that could be loosely translated as follows: “To an honest man, I'd give my daughter's hand in marriage, but entrusting him with my fate would be a different matter.”
Classical Rome had a better grasp of what's virtuous and what's not. For the word “virtue” originated from the Latin “virtutem,” meaning “manliness,” and begat the derivative “virile” that had a most positive connotation in the writings of Winston Churchill. The Romans did not fathom virtue the way we do. To our modern understanding it's about compassion, love, charity, sympathy, honesty, hard work, mercy, altruism, piety, chastity... for them it was about audacity, stoicism, power, might, victory... A Roman might wage war, destroy, kill, and enslave and still be virtuous, not despite his cruelty but as a consequence of it. All is allowed as long as you win, and once you do, you can conveniently pass the task of glorifying your exploits to poets and historians who would highlight your achievements and ignore or minimize the trail of death and desolation you left behind.
History, everywhere at any time, is a collection of lies and partial truths. Chroniclers might sample the Assyrian Annals that provided a useful adjunct to archeological studies and where Assyria's propagandists assiduously documented the exploits of its kings, exalting their prowess in warfare along with their gratuitous cruelty. Rome''s apologists followed the same path: glory to the victor and death or ignominy to the vanquished. Herodotus' analysis was more sophisticated, as he sought to seek cause—usually hubris—and effect—nemesis—to conflicts; he also cleverly magnified the achievements of the victorious Greeks by wildly exaggerating the numbers of the defeated Persians, a practice common to apologists from time immemorial.
Cyrus the Great, Alexander the Great, Suleiman the Magnificent, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Napoléon... their “greatness” consisted in conquering vast empires at a tremendous cost in human suffering and material destruction. Might is right.
The notion that justice would eventually prevail is a fiction. A just cause is at least as likely to lose as an unjust one, that is, unless we define “justice” and “virtue” in Roman terms. Victors—keenly conscious of their posthumous image—handsomely reward legions of pundits to meticulously highlight their good deeds and whitewash their crimes, however odious. With that in mind, it should be no wonder that a generation or two is all that it takes for people to forget the abominations that spearheaded the impeccable “greatness” of their heroes and delude themselves into subscribing to a Hollywood-style “good” that deservedly thwarted the ultimate “evil.”
