The Education Cyrus Missed

Cyrus’ Uneducated View of Justice

What education, in the literal sense, did Cyrus miss? The Cyrus of Xenophon’s account is born a prince of Persia and educated in the laws of the Persians (1.2.1). As many have noted, the Persia of the Cyropaedia bears striking resemblance to ancient Sparta. ⁵ The Persian regime of Xenophon’s description consisted of a comprehensive program of community service and austere living, at least for those youths whose families could afford for them to avoid paid work. From 12 to 16, Persian boys spent their days training under teachers of justice, learning to judge disputes and evaluating accusations of wrongdoing. They learned to take vengeance on those whom they judged to be guilty parties. They learned to be especially hard on ingratitude, on the grounds that he who is ungrateful would also neglect the gods, as well as parents, fatherland, and friends. Ingratitude seemed to warrant special attention, Xenophon says, as it seemed to be a precursor to shamelessness (1.2.7). In this period, they also learned moderation. They observed the moderation of adults and practiced it themselves, dining always in groups with their teachers, and eating and drinking only when the rulers gave the signal. Lastly, they learned how to shoot a bow and throw a spear (1.2.8).

Cyrus was present for at least some of this education for, as we will soon see, he reports an experience of adjudicating at least one dispute among younger boys, under the supervision of a teacher (1.3.16–17). But when he was about 12, he left Persia for Medea with his mother, Mandane, the daughter of the ruler of Medea. After a while, she went back to her husband, but Cyrus, at his grandfather’s urging, decided to stay. He did not return to Persia until he was fifteen or sixteen (1.4.16). Once returned, he spent one more year among the youths (1.5.1). So Cyrus did not miss all of the Persian training in justice. But he missed most of it, spending his formative years in despotic and decadent Medea instead.

Being the grandson of the tyrant of Medea, Cyrus was free to do more or less what he pleased. He was able to follow his natural inclinations (Nadon 2001, 51). ⁶ By the time he was 12, he had already surpassed his agemates in Persia in all the arts by which Persian youths were measured. In Medea, there was much to learn, especially horseback riding, and there were good competitors to learn from. He eagerly learned the arts of war, seeking out competitors who were his superiors so as to improve. He ingratiated himself with everyone around him, seizing every possible opportunity to benefit his peers. He used his closeness to his grandfather to secure favors for his peers, notably the privilege of going hunting outside the city gates (1.3-4).

Cyrus returned from Medea an able horseman and soldier. He then spent 10 years in Persia, including one last year among the youths. Eventually—and probably, from his point of view, at long last—his uncle, Cyaxares, who had become king of Medea, sent word to Persia for help in fending off an aggressor. Cyaxares asked for an army and he asked that, if possible, Cyrus come as the army’s general (1.5.4). Cyrus answered the call, and the army with which he left Persia became the seed of the force with which he conquered the known world. Whatever education he missed in Persia during his youth, then, was not essential to his development into a singularly capable leader of men. Cyrus did not need the Persian training in justice to become a conqueror and an emperor.

But his mother, at least, thought he might need that training for another reason. When he expresses his wish to stay in Medea, she objects that if he stays, he will miss the Persian education in justice. She worries that, if he returns having learned the Medean, tyrannical view of justice rather the Persian one—which is equality and taking the law as one’s measure—he will be beaten to death (1.3.17–18). Cyrus assures his mother that he already knows what justice is. He explains that before they left Persia, he was put in charge of supervising the other boys. A big boy with a small coat had come upon a small boy with a big coat. The big boy took the small boy’s big coat and gave the smaller boy his own small coat. Cyrus had judged that it was better for each of them to have the coat that was fitting for them. But, he explains, for this judgment, he was beaten. His teacher explained to him that his task was not to judge what was fitting, but rather, who was the rightful or just owner of each coat. The just possession is what one has made or purchased, not what one has taken by force. The lawful is the just, and the unlawful is the violent. To be just, then, means to restore the ill-fitting coats to each boy in accord with the law (1.3.17). On the basis of this story, Cyrus says, his mother can rest assured that he already knows what justice is. ⁷

This story indicates the adolescent Cyrus’ view of justice. The significance that scholars assign to this story depends on what they think of Cyrus’ decision to stand by the boy who commandeered the fitting coat. Was Cyrus right to approve of the redistribution of property on grounds of the fitting? Was he right to disregard the law? Many scholars think so. Newell calls this story “one of the clearest formulations in classical political thought of the distinction between natural and conventional (legal) right” (Newell 1983, 896–97; see also Nadon 2001, 49; Gray 2016, 318; Gray 2011, 214). Whidden writes that Cyrus sees that law is merely the “irrational and arbitrary application of force” (Whidden 2007, 547). At least one scholar assumes that the view of justice expressed by Cyrus here is Xenophon’s own (Danzig 2009, 242–243). ⁸

In thinking about the meaning of Cyrus’ initial approval of the forced redistribution of the coats, Pangle notes that it aligns with a point about justice that Socrates makes in Book One of the Republic (Pangle 2017, 312). Socrates points out that if a friend asked you to hold a weapon for him, and then demanded it back when he was no longer of sound mind, it would not be just to give it to him, nor to tell him the truth about where it was. Polemarchus agrees. Following the law, and in particular the laws concerning property, is not always just. On that basis, Polemarchus suggests that perhaps the poet who suggested that “it is just to give to each what is owed” really meant that it is just to give to each what is fitting (Republic 331c). It would not be just to give a crazy friend back his weapon, just as it is not fitting for a big boy to have a small coat. The just course of action is the fitting one, which seems to mean, in a general way, the action that benefits the people involved, or at least avoids harm.

Now, the point illustrated by Socrates’ example is less radical than Cyrus’ action. Socrates’ example rests on the need to prevent imminent harm, a need that is often acknowledged as justifying exceptions to or deviations from law. Cyrus, on the other hand, approves of an act, not of catastrophe-avoidance, but of utility-maximization. No calamity threatens, merely a less-than-ideal distribution of property. Thus, Cyrus’ action points more clearly and directly to a sweeping revolution of property distribution than does Socrates’ example in the Republic. Nevertheless, both examples illustrate how law can be an obstacle to justice. When the law stands in the way of the good, justice demands a departure from the law.

To some, then, the story shows that Cyrus had a precocious understanding of the problematic nature of law. It shows that he could see past law to a higher or truer form of justice. However, while many scholars praise Cyrus’ understanding of justice, they discern a certain dismissiveness in his attitude about it. ⁹ He seems cavalier in his assurances to his mother that he knows what he needs to know. As Pangle points out, if he were troubled by the question of justice, it might have impeded his path to power (Pangle 2017, 312). One cannot be a philosopher and a conqueror. But can we safely draw the conclusion from this conversation that Cyrus was insufficiently serious about justice? It is true that he does not argue, with his teacher or his mother, about what justice is. But in the first case, he is being beaten. And in the second case, his aim is to convince his mother that it is safe to let him stay in Medea. He wants to convey that he already understands the Persian teaching on justice. In particular, he needs to impress upon her his firm grasp on the point that, in Persia, “justice as law” is not up for debate. To raise questions about the meaning of justice to her, then, would be contrary to his purpose. It would only fuel her concerns for his safety.

Besides, none of this is to say that Cyrus genuinely accepts the judgment of his Persian teacher as to what justice is. If he does not show interest in probing deeply into the question of what justice is, it is because he is convinced that he knows what it is. When Cyrus is finally put in charge of an army, he sets about reforming the army in accord with his adolescent notion of justice. Dispensing with Persian law under the press—not to say pretext—of military necessity, he dismantles the military and economic hierarchy and arms the commoners. He opens recruiting to men of all nationalities, and persuades the men to accept that rewards be distributed in accord with merit. In these ways, he moves his army away from what is legal and toward what it is fitting (Whidden 2007, 547; Bartlett 2015, 147; Danzig 2009, 261). ¹⁰ With one notable exception, Cyrus never embraces law as a means of governing. ¹¹ Rather, he maintains that the best kind of rule is that of a “seeing law,” in which he himself makes all the decisions (8.1.22). ¹²

The Long-Term Consequences of Cyrus’ View of Justice

One consequence of Cyrus staying in Medea, then—the consequence Xenophon highlights by reporting the conversation between the young Cyrus and Mandane—is that Cyrus’ view of justice remains “uneducated” by further Persian instruction. At 12, he saw justice as the fitting—he thought the coats should have stayed with the boys that fit into them, regardless of who legally owned them —and he never changed his mind. ¹³ The next question, then, is what is the significance of that fact? Is that good or bad? Like the coats story itself, one can view Cyrus’ retention of his initial view of justice in different lights. One might say Cyrus was never indoctrinated in Persian law. He was never forced to surrender his good judgment to the arbitrary will of the law. Reasoning along these lines, one scholar suggests that the “natural freedom of mind” Cyrus exhibited in the coats story would prove essential to his successes (Ray 1992, 241, n3). In some sense, that must be true. If Cyrus had felt bound by law, he would not have reformed the Persian army in the ways that he did. His army would have remained a small and relatively weak force, an army sent to help a neighbor in a minor conflict, rather than the formidable colossus that it became. It was essential to Cyrus’ accomplishments that he did not become a dogmatic defender of Persian ways, and he did not feel bound by Persian restraint (see also Bruell 1987, 94–95).

On the other hand, one might also say that Cyrus’ opposition to law, or his dismissal of law as nothing but an obstacle to the good, went unchallenged. He was never exposed to arguments in favor of law. And this may not have been simply good for his character. This is indicated by a story that Cyrus’s father, Cambyses, tells him as he is setting out with this army. Cambyses explains that Cyrus will need to practice dishonesty and deception against his enemies in order to prevail. Shocked by this, Cyrus asks his father why he did not tell him this earlier. Cambyses explains that Persia once had a teacher of justice who taught that justice sometimes requires doing harm to enemies, as well as doing good to friends, and that it sometimes requires one to break rules, lie, and deceive, for the benefit of one’s friends. What happened was that some of the students—especially those “having natural gifts for both deceiving and getting the advantage, and perhaps also those with a natural gift for the love of gain”—began to take advantage of their friends as well as their enemies (1.6.32). And so it was decided, Cambyses explains, to resume subjecting the young to rules:

There arose a decree that we still use even now, to teach the boys simply, just as we teach servants in their conduct toward us, to tell the truth, not to deceive, not to steal, and not to take advantage, and to punish whoever acts contrary to this, so that being instilled with such a habit, they might become tamer citizens. (1.6.33)

According to Cambyses, then, teaching the young to understand justice as doing good for one’s friends rather than as obedience to laws, led some of them, at least, to abandon justice altogether.

The consequences of this teacher’s instruction are important, because Cyrus’s view of justice was similar to that of this unusual teacher. Cyrus did not start out with a view identical to that of the teacher. At least initially, Cyrus did not understand that justice sometimes entails harming enemies. ¹⁴ It takes his father explaining this point to him for him to grasp it (1.6.35). ¹⁵ But from the outset, Cyrus shared with the unusual teacher the view that laws, in their unreasonable rigidity, should be broken if it serves the interests of one’s friends. Moreover, Cyrus’ successes later in the book leave no doubt that Cyrus must be counted among those possessing “natural gifts for both deceiving and getting the advantage”—the group for whom this education was said to be especially corrupting. Was Cyrus’ understanding of justice connected, then, with an openness to injustice? Would his view of justice lead him, as it did the Persian students, to take advantage of his friends? ¹⁶

At first glance, the answer to these questions is no. Throughout the book, Cyrus exudes generosity and magnanimity. These traits are the hallmarks of his leadership style. When Tigranes makes a powerful case for the efficacy of ruling through fear, Cyrus tells Tigranes that would rather not rule at all than rule by that method (3.1.28). Cyrus is nothing if not benevolent. And as for justice, we have already noted that he tries to bring greater fairness to everything he rules over. He establishes the principle that rewards should be distributed in accord with merit. And when those rewards come, he tries to control for and neutralize all of the forces that threaten to obstruct the application of that principle. After he conquers Sardis, for example, he insists that the loot taken by plunderers be given to those who did not abandon their posts (7.2.7). He then strikes a deal with Croesus to prevent further looting. Croesus makes the deal out of concern to save the precious art in Sardis, whereas Cyrus is concerned that if the city is plundered, its goods will end up in the hands of those who do not deserve them (7.2.11). Similarly, once he is emperor, Cyrus insists that the Persians keep up their training, on the grounds that those who rule should merit their position of superiority. He holds himself to the same standard (8.1.37–38). How could someone so concerned to see virtue rewarded be understood as lacking in appreciation for justice?

How Justice as “the Fitting” Leads Cyrus Away from the Noble

Cyrus lacks an appreciation, not exactly for the importance of justice, but for its importance as something independent of the good. The fact that he shows such concern to see virtue rewarded suggests that, in his view, virtue needed to be rewarded. He had no notion of Aristotle’s conception of the morally virtuous act, undertaken for its own sake (Ethics 1105a30-35) or “for the sake of the noble” (Ethics 1115b20-25). ¹⁷ As he says to his army in his first speech upon taking command, why else would anyone be good, or work hard, if not for the sake of a reward (1.5.9–10; see also 1.6.20)? Doing so is like farming without ever reaping a harvest. He says it again when he argues that rewards should be distributed in accord with merit (2.2.20, 2.3.3). ¹⁸ He eagerly anticipates the conclusion that people will draw from his army’s victory: “All will say in the future that nothing is more profitable than virtue” (7.1.18). The implication is that, in the present, the people do not necessarily see virtue as profitable. Cyrus wants to provide evidence. And he worries about the example set by men who reap rewards from vice. Their example troubles him so much that he commands their expulsion from the army, despite the fact that his army is vastly outnumbered and he needs all the men he can get (2.2.23–25).

Cyrus’ own most notable virtue is moderation, and this, too, he practices in an instrumental way. As a child, Cyrus abstains from his extra portions of food and drink at his grandfather’s table. As a general, he continues to practice moderation and encourage it in his men. And as a ruler, he demands it from himself and from the ruling class. But all along, his moderation serves his larger purposes. In Medea, he uses the extra food and drink he receives at his grandfather’s table to give gifts to others, and thus to obtain their love and affection (2.1.29). He exhorts his men to moderation after a major victory on the grounds that it is necessary to future victories. If they enjoy the spoils of war on the spot, he argues, they risk angering the allies who have not yet made it to safety. By waiting to indulge themselves, they will retain their allies’ continued goodwill. He exhorts them not only to wait to have a meal until everyone has arrived, but even to allow the allies to distribute the spoils of war, and thus risk not receiving their fair share of the spoils at all. “If they allocate somewhat less to us,” he argues, “we should hold it a gain for because of these gains, they will be more pleased to stay with us” (4.2.43). Cyrus’ moderation is his way of playing the long game, understanding that rewarding their allies now will keep those allies fighting. ¹⁹ “Why did we learn moderation,” he asks his men when he is exhorting them, “if not to use it to our advantage” (4.2.38–39, 45; see also Bartlett 2015, 146)? Once he is king, he convinces the Persians to keep to their moderate ways on the grounds that it is necessary to maintaining their power (8.1.38, 8.6.12, 8.1.37–39).

Implicit in Cyrus’ insistence that virtue be rewarded is this thought: if virtue is not rewarded—if it does not benefit its practitioner—then it is not necessarily worth practicing. ²⁰ This insistence that virtue bring rewards to its practitioner is linked to his conception of justice. Because he views justice as the good or fitting, he rejects the idea that justice, or, indeed, virtue more generally, might demand a sacrifice of one’s own good. He often demands, of his army and himself, that they restrain themselves in their pursuit of their own advantage in the name of even greater future rewards. But he never demands that they restrain their pursuit of their own interest, simply, in the name of justice. Rather, he argues that the actions he deems beneficial to himself and the army are also just (1.5.13, 4.1.19, 4.5.21, 5.3.31; Faulkner 2007, 140).

Now, this is not to say that Cyrus lacked moral seriousness. The concern that just actions be rewarded is itself a kind of expression of moral seriousness. But in his desire to unite the good and the just, Cyrus failed to see that justice sometimes demands a sacrifice of one’s own good. Just as he was not without moral seriousness, so, too, Cyrus was not without impulses toward self-forgetting. On the contrary. A man who, through sheer energy and drive, conquers the known world and becomes the founder of an empire is hardly governed by a utilitarian calculus of his own good. And there are moments when Cyrus shows an instinctive impulse to put the good of others before himself. The need to harm one’s enemies is the aspect of his father’s advice that most disturbs the young Cyrus (1.6.27). It is a rare moment when he laughs—a sign that he is trying to diffuse the tension as he processes his father’s advice. And when he tells Tigranes that he would not want to rule by fear even if it would be effective, he seems to think that it would be low to maintain power in that way (3.1.28). But he is also clearly bothered by the thought of doing so much harm. It is all the more striking, then, in light of his moral seriousness, his benevolent tendencies, and his erotic nature that Cyrus never fully embraced the idea of a justice or a virtue pursued for its own sake. One might say that, thanks to the way that Xenophon writes the story, he never has to. Cyrus is so good at linking the beneficial and the just, and his virtues serve his interests so well, that he almost never confronts a conflict between justice or virtue and the good. There is, however, one notable exception. There is one instance in which not even Cyrus can seamlessly knit together the just and the good, and that is in his relationship with his uncle, Cyaxares. It is in his interactions with his uncle that Cyrus’ unwillingness to sever the link between the good and the just comes out most clearly. So, too, do the consequences of that unwillingness.

Cyrus and Cyaxares: The Limits of Justice as the Fitting

From the moment when Cyrus, as a teen in Medea, suggests a certain battle strategy to his grandfather, and his grandfather instructs his son, Cyaxares, to carry it out, Cyaxares’ life is decisively shaped by his relationship to his extraordinary nephew (1.4.20). It is Cyaxares who asks that the Persian army that comes to his aid be led by Cyrus (1.5.4). And it is Cyaxares who bankrolls Cyrus’ army and the expensive modifications he makes to it (2.1.9, 2.4.9, 3.3.13, 3.3.20). After they win their first battle against the Assyrian king, Cyrus suggests that they go on the offensive. Cyaxares declines, and he tries to talk Cyrus out of it as well, but he agrees, in the end, to let Cyrus invite any of the Medean troops who wish to, to join him in continuing his pursuit. Reveling in his tent, Cyaxares remains unaware that virtually all of his men choose to join Cyrus’ expedition. It is not until much later, after Cyrus has acquired an even greater army, gained key allies, and defeated the Assyrians yet again, that Cyaxares finally meets back up with him. Cyaxares greets Cyrus angrily, and refuses Cyrus’ attempts at a warm reunion (5.5.6). The Medean troops fear that he will demand that they abandon Cyrus and return to him. They do not seem poised to heed that demand, but they worry that it could complicate their situation. Cyrus has the same worry.

Drawing his uncle aside for a private conversation, Cyrus asks his uncle why he is upset. Cyaxares describes how he has been humiliated and emasculated by the transfer of his troops’ loyalty to his nephew. He cries, and Cyrus cries with him. Nevertheless, Cyrus defends his actions, arguing that he has done nothing wrong. He stresses that at no point has he explicitly defied his uncle’s wishes (5.5.10–20). He also tries to make the case that, in truth, he has done his uncle no harm. He points to the tangible ways in which his own victories redound to Cyaxares’ benefit. Cyaxares acknowledges these facts. But they are not the most important facts, and both men know it. After a pause, Cyaxares describes the position in which Cyrus’ actions have placed him. Notwithstanding the ways in which Cyrus has advanced the interests of Medea, Cyrus has stripped his uncle of his power and his dignity. He has thus taken what Cyraxares cared about most. Cyrus’ gains have been his uncle’s losses. As Cyaxares describes things, there is no common good between them.

Hearing his uncle’s description of his humiliation, Cyrus cuts his uncle off, and asks him to postpone judgment until he can enjoy more of the fruits of Cyrus’ success (5.5.21–35). The fact that Cyrus interrupts his uncle shows us just how uncomfortable this line of discussion makes him. It is a rare moment of gracelessness in Cyrus, the only time in the story when Xenophon reports a crack in his self-controlled politeness. And yet Cyrus makes no attempt to respond to his uncle’s complaints about how he has been shamed and emasculated by Cyrus’ actions. There are many things he could have said. Cyrus could have pointed out that Cyaxares had not earned the respect of his men; he merely inherited his authority from his father. If he had been a better ruler, perhaps his cavalry would not have flocked so readily to Cyrus. The fact that they transferred their loyalty so easily and decisively to Cyrus suggests that their loyalty to Cyaxares was not particularly well founded. But Cyrus does not say this. He defends himself only by arguing that he has done nothing wrong—and being very selective in his review of his own actions in order to make that case.

Rather than going on the offensive and pointing out how Cyaxares’ choices have contributed to the situation, or defend his own right to pursue greater power and security, Cyrus quickly turns the focus back to the ways in which his uncle’s interests align with his own. He encourages his uncle not to focus on the ways he has been harmed, and instead to focus on enjoying himself. Cyrus appeals to his uncle’s hedonism, the very quality that played a large role in his being sidelined. It works. Cyaxares is placated by a luxurious dinner. For different reasons, both men would much rather not think about the harm Cyrus has done to his uncle. ²¹ In Cyaxares’ case, it is because it does no good to dwell on the inescapable facts of his humiliation. To the degree that he can salvage any happiness for himself, it is by enjoying the fruits of Cyrus’ success. In Cyrus’ case, thinking about the conflict of interest between himself and his uncle would raise for him the uncomfortable question of whether justice—or gratitude—demanded that he restrain his own pursuit of the good, in order to spare his uncle harm. ²²

In his confrontation with his uncle, we see how Cyrus held fast to the idea that justice is the good, or the fitting, and refused to consider the ways in which justice might demand a departure from the good. And viewing justice in this way, he did “take advantage of a friend,” for he pursued his own good at Cyaxares’ expense. Cyrus’ willingness to take advantage of his uncle is all the more striking in light of the affection and concern he has for him. When his uncle cries, at least for a moment, Cyrus cries with him. He is sorry for his uncle’s distress, even if he is not quite sorry enough to have refrained from causing it. It must be said that Cyrus’ view of justice was not the sole cause of Cyaxares’ loss of power; Cyaxares was the collateral damage of Cyrus’ rise, and Cyrus’ rise had many causes, including both Cyrus’ own talents and ambitions, and the failings of the regimes and rulers that he supplanted. But Cyrus’ view of justice did make it easier, for it allowed him to ignore the ways in which his treatment of his uncle was ungrateful and unjust.

The Path Not Taken: How Cyrus Might Have Learned to Love the Noble

Now that we have seen some of the ramifications of the way in which Cyrus viewed justice, let us consider its causes. We began by noting the lacuna in his early education in justice; was his mature view of justice shaped, in some important way, by the fact that he missed the Persian education in justice? Might a Persian education have altered Cyrus’ outlook, allowing him to see that it does not always make sense to insist on equating the just with the beneficial? If “the laws of Persia teach that goodness consists in nobility” (Bartlett 2015, 144), might living under those laws for the crucial years of his adolescence have awakened Cyrus to the possibility that virtue and justice are ends in themselves? Might it have awakened in him a love of the noble, regardless of what concrete benefits the noble does or does not provide?

It is important to acknowledge that Xenophon presents Cyrus as rather a force of nature. Quite possibly no education would have made any difference in his development. Still, by marking off the years Cyrus was absent from Persia as the years in which young men received instruction in justice, Xenophon invites the reader to at least consider whether the timing of that absence was in some sense critical or decisive. If the Persian education in justice would have affected him, how would it have done so? Perhaps having been subject to law over time would have given him a deeper appreciation of law. One scholar, for instance, in casting a critical eye on the coats story, observes that “conventional agreement contributes to our living well, and indeed justly, together” (Field 726, n5). In other words, law does not simply obstruct the common good, but also contributes to it. Perhaps Cyrus might have been brought to see this point if he had spent his formative years in a place that valued law.

However, as Xenophon presents Persian education, that does not seem likely. For the Persian laws, as described by Xenophon, offer limited and problematic instruction. First, there is the way that Cyrus’s teacher “instructs” him in justice. He tells him that the lawful is the just, and the unlawful is violent. Legal justice is contrasted with and opposed to violence. But the teacher conveys this lesson through a beating. The distinction between law and violence, in Xenophon’s presentation, is a false distinction. ²³ The law purports to transcend the need for compulsion, but it fails to do so. Second, and related, the Persian education in justice seems to have been less a matter of substance and more a matter of training in enforcement. Xenophon remarks that the Persian youths learned justice as Greek youths “learned their letters” (1.2.6). How did Greek youths learn their letters? Through memorization, repetition, and imitation. Thus did the Persian training in justice proceed (cf. Strauss 1939, 510). The training of Persian youths also involved the enlistment of their passions, insofar as the young were taught to take vengeance on wrongdoers, punish ingratitude, and train for war (1.2.7–8). The “education in justice,” then, was a program for producing loyal protectors and defenders of Persian laws rather than knowers of justice.

Even if staying in Persia had not necessarily made Cyrus wiser about justice, or more appreciative of the value of law, might it have turned him into a partisan of Persian ways? Being forced to serve something often magnifies its significance and causes people, especially the young, to develop an attachment to it. We cannot assume that Cyrus would have been immune to these human tendencies. And there is a further possibility. Cyrus might have come to appreciate a certain beauty in the demand that citizens subordinate their own good to the greater good served by the law. It is, after all, precisely in its independence from ordinary considerations of benefit or utility that justice comes to sight as noble and beautiful.

Here, again, however, Xenophon indicates that this line of reasoning attributes more power to Persian education than it actually had. ²⁴ When he is characterizing the overarching aim of Persian education, Xenophon says that it aimed, not at cultivating a love of justice or a love of noble, but at ensuring that the citizens “would never desire any wicked or shameful deed” (1.2.3). He indicates, in other words, that the education implanted shame in people as a restraint. ²⁵ Recall Cambyses’ formulation as to the power of Persian education: it ensured that the citizens would remain “tame citizens” (praoteroi politai, 1.6.33). If the results of Persian education were reliable, their reliability was rooted not in the love of virtue and justice inspired by that education, but in the power of habit. ²⁶

Perhaps Cyrus, like the rest of the Persian youths, would have been restrained by deeply ingrained habits of self-deprivation. Whether such habit-bred restraint would have been decisive given Cyrus’ extraordinary nature is an open question. But even if it had, this would only constitute evidence that shame, if evoked with sufficient vigor, can succeed in suppressing ambition. Reflecting on the limits of Persian education raises another question: Was there any other source of education available to Cyrus that might have taught him what a Persian education could not?

Abratadas and Panthea: Another Missed Opportunity for Education in the Noble

If anything in the Education of Cyrus has the power to evoke an appreciation of the noble and to prompt reflection about it, it is the example of two characters who are thoroughly and tragically devoted to one another, Abradatas and Panthea. Their beauty, their virtue, and their love for one another captivate everyone around them. Almost everyone, that is; everyone but Cyrus. Cyrus sees their ability to captivate; indeed, he makes use of it. As soon as Panthea is captured, Cyrus thinks about how she may be useful to him (5.1.17). Later, when Abradatas has joined Cyrus’ cause in gratitude to him for sparing Panthea, Abradatas volunteers for the front lines of battle. Before the battle, Cyrus asks him to move throughout the troops, inspiring them and exhorting them (7.1.18). But Cyrus carefully guards against having any such experiences of being moved by the beautiful himself. When she is first captured, Cyrus declines to visit Panthea for fear that he will fall under her spell (5.1.8). Cyrus seems to think there is something false or harmful in the allure of the beautiful. ²⁷ He explains his aversion to visiting her by saying that he observes that many who fall under the spell of beauty fail to pursue the good as a result (5.1.12). Indeed, the story of Abradatas and Panthea seems to constitute just such an instance. As Panthea exhorts Abradatas to bravery in battle and adorns him with armor made from the precious metals of her own jewelry, and as she kisses his chariot as it rides away to battle, their beauty, both physical and moral, overwhelms and outshines all thoughts of practical interest or benefit.

Is it another indication of the limitations of Cyrus’ character that he does not become enthralled with this couple, as do so many of those around him? At this point, we must consider an alternative reading. The way the story of Abradatas and Panthea ends raises the possibility that Cyrus’ attitude toward the noble is not a defect, but a strength. For Xenophon’s portrait of Abradatas and Panthea gives us reason to consider whether Cyrus was right to shy away from such experiences as this one, which cause their participants to lose focus on the good. While it is beautiful in the telling, the outcome of the story of Abradatas and Panthea suggests that Cyrus’ skepticism of beauty and its effect on human beings has some basis. Panthea comes to regret profoundly encouraging Abradatas’ herosim. When she sees his gruesome death, it breaks the spell of the noble for her. She blames herself for encouraging him, and Cyrus as well, and she commits suicide (7.3.14). The noble is captivating, but at least in this case, it does not lead its exemplars to the good. On the contrary, in their case, it leads to death and ruin. ²⁸

If Persian education, then, which seemed to aim at developing a love of the noble, proves in fact to be merely a vehicle for producing tame citizens, and if the characters who represent a different, possibly superior path to the love of the noble meet a miserable end, then perhaps the message of the Cyropaedia as a whole is that Cyrus’ avoidance of such experiences was wise. Perhaps the love of the noble as something wholly distinct from the good distracts and derails human beings from the best path. Maybe Cyrus’ lack of “education” in this area was not a lack of education, but indeed, a fortunate evasion—an escape—from the trap of “the noble,” that so many human beings fall into.

Certainly, the story does suggest that Cyrus’ moral outlook had certain benefits for him and for those around him. The fact that he refused to allow the noble to take on a life of its own for him, independent of the good, meant that he could pursue the good more effectively. It meant that his morality, even at its highest pitch, remained lukewarm, and in many ways, this was beneficial to those who were led and ruled by him. For instance, a desire for vengeance never seriously distracted or derailed him from pursuing his ultimate goals. He was remarkably free from vengefulness and from indignation (Faulkner 2007, 158–159). He was eminently reasonable, and his reasonableness was key to the respect people held for his authority as a general and a judge. His reasonableness allowed him to be fair. As Faulkner writes, “Cyrus’ reasonableness in grasping his necessities and others’ promotes much justice” (Faulkner 2007, 148). Cyrus also never let the Persian preoccupation with gratitude stand in the way of what needed doing. Apart from his (arguably most ungrateful) treatment of Cyaxares, his dismantling of the Persian regime could be said to be the height of ingratitude toward his birthplace. He did it anyway. Cyrus’ ability to be who he was—to leave, to innovate, to conquer, and to rule—was heightened by the fact that the ties of obligation never bound him too tightly.

But at least one important aspect of the Cyropaedia suggests that, if, in one sense, Cyrus did himself a favor by shielding himself from the experience of the beautiful, in a deeper sense, he did himself a disservice. Xenophon puts the story of Abradatas and Panthea, in all its splendor and sorrow, before us as readers, which indicates that he thinks there is value in contemplating that story. Indeed, the Cyropaedia has a great deal of beauty in it: the beauty of the army, the impressiveness of Cyrus himself, the grandeur and the magnificence of Cyrus’ whole undertaking. In telling the story of Cyrus’ rise, and highlighting the role of the star-crossed lovers, Xenophon evokes in his readers the very experiences that Cyrus himself avoids and devalues. This suggests that by never fully experiencing the appeal of selfless nobility, Cyrus missed out on an experience that Xenophon thought worth having.

Contemplating the beautiful could be regarded as an important human experience in itself. But how is it linked to education? Perhaps feeling the pull of the beautiful as truly independent of the good is necessary to thinking it through. Consider the movement of Plato’s Republic—a book that begins, just as does the Cyropaedia, with an assertion of the idea that justice is “the fitting.” The Republic does not end there. On the contrary, justice soon comes under attack. Thrasymachus makes the case that justice is bad for those who practice it. Taking up his mantle at the beginning of Book Two, Glaucon and Adiemantus ask to be shown how justice could be good for just people, despite considerable evidence to the contrary. They are not sure that it is good—in fact, they seriously doubt it—but they hope that it might be. They see the possibility that somehow, even though it is not good for us in any ordinary sort of way, justice holds out the promise of being good for us in a much deeper way. That hope prompts them to examine together with Socrates whether it does offer such a good. ²⁹

One must be able to feel the pull of the noble—to hope that justice is good in and of itself, intrinsically, without regard to its consequences—precisely if one is going to examine the grounds of that hope. The grand project of the Republic only gets off the ground when its participants begin to examine how it is that justice, in its apparent badness, in its demand that we ignore or forego the good or the fitting, holds out the promise of providing a transcendent good. To see that point, one must first appreciate that justice does demand a sacrifice, or a willingness to set aside considerations of the good in favor of what is right. And one must appreciate that demand has a certain beauty to it.

If this is correct, it means that Cyrus, in insisting that the noble never be understood as entirely separable from the good, never becomes altogether wise, nor is he ever in a position to become so. It tends to confirm that from a certain point of view, then—the highest and strictest point of view—“Cyrus has no genuine education” (Bruell 1969, 127). He repeatedly misses opportunities to obtain such an education, first by leaving Persia and remaining in Medea for much of his youth; then by not “visiting Panthea,” and by avoiding any experiences of the beautiful more generally. He misses that education also, in a different way, by steering clear of difficult questions about justice. He avoids thinking about the consequences of his own successes for people such as his uncle. He manages to live his whole life through without ever confronting this question: When the interests of friends conflict, whose good should be served, and why? Insisting always that justice is the fitting, he never considers the possibility that justice demands that we sacrifice our own good for that of our friends.

In telling the story of Cyrus, Xenophon invites us to be moved by its beauty, but also to consider the ways in which, if Cyrus’ path had been slightly different, it might have been better still. Cyrus’ ascent is engrossing and exhilarating. But Xenophon has in mind a different ascent for his readers.