Hiero

Once again, to private citizens a truce or peace brings rest from war; but despots are never at peace with the people subject to their despotism, and no truce can ever make a despot confident.

There are, of course, wars that are waged by states against one another, and wars waged by the despot against his oppressed subjects. Now the hardships incidental to these wars that fall on the citizen fall also on the despot.

For both must wear arms, be watchful, run risks; and the sting of a defeat is felt by both alike.

So far, then, both are equally affected by wars. But the joys that fall to the citizens of states at war are not experienced by despots.[*](I.e., in the wars that he wages against his subjects. The whole of this paragraph is obscurely expressed and highly artificial; and it has been variously interpreted. The text also is uncertain.)

For, you know, when states defeat their foes in a battle, words fail one to describe the joy they feel in the rout of the enemy, in the pursuit, in the slaughter of the enemy. What transports of triumphant pride! What a halo of glory about them! What comfort to think that they have exalted their city!

Everyone is crying: I had a share in the plan, I killed most; and it’s hard to find where they don’t revel in falsehood, claiming to have killed more than all that were really slain. So glorious it seems to them to have won a great victory!

But when a despot harbours suspicion, and, well aware that opposition is on foot, puts the conspirators to death, he knows that he does not exalt the city as a whole; he understands that the number of his subjects will be less; he cannot look cheerful; nor does he boast himself of his achievement; nay, he belittles the occurrence as much as possible, and explains, while he is at the work, that there is nothing wrong in what he has done, so far are his deeds from seeming honourable even to himself.

Even the death of those whom he feared does not restore him to confidence; he is yet more on his guard afterwards than before. And now I have shown you the kind of war that a despot wages continually.

Turn next to friendship, and behold how despots share in it. First let us consider whether friendship is a great blessing to mankind.

When a man is loved by friends, I take it, they rejoice at his presence, delight to do him good, miss him when he is absent, greet him most joyfully on his return, rejoice with him in his good fortune, unite in aiding him when they see him tripping.[*](Xen. Cyrop. 1.6.24)

Even states are not blind to the fact that friendship is a very great blessing, and very delightful to men. At any rate, many states have a law that adulterers only may be put to death with impunity, obviously for this reason, because they believe them to be destroyers of the wife’s friendship with her husband;

although,[*](ἐπεὶ should be rendered though, not since here, for it introduces a reason why one might suppose that there would be some restriction on the right to kill an adulterer, and not the reason why all adulterers may be killed with impunity. Compare, for instance, Plat. Prot. 335c. The accident is, of course, rape.) when a woman’s lapse is the result of some accident, husbands do not honour their wives any less on that account, provided that wives seem to reserve their affection unblemished.

In my judgment, to be loved is a blessing so precious that I believe good things fall literally of themselves on him who is loved from gods and men alike.

Such, then, is the nature of this possession—a possession wherein despots above all other men are stinted. If you want to know that I am speaking the truth, Simonides, consider the question in this way.

The firmest friendships, I take it, are supposed to be those that unite parents to children, children to parents, wives to husbands, comrades to comrades.

Now you will find, if you will but observe, that private citizens are, in fact, loved most deeply by these. But what of despots? Many have slain their own children; many have themselves been murdered by their children; many brothers, partners in despotism, have perished by each other’s hand; many have been destroyed even by their own wives, aye, and by comrades whom they accounted their closest friends.