Initial Impressions of Paris

For the past week I have been walking and biking around Paris. This has caused a kind of sensory overload—not only from the landmarks, but also the people, the stores, the streets, the sidewalks, the parks and green spaces. I have struggled to find concepts that encapsulate these different and multitudinous sensations. Two have recently come to mind: prestige and seduction. Both, in their own ways, capture the “feel” of Paris, especially its public spaces.

The spirit of republicanism (understood theoretically, not politically) includes the relatively superior value ascribed to public domains, or those that are accessible to all regardless of socioeconomic class or other distinctions. Concretely, this means large amounts of government investment in public spaces; it also implies a well-functioning public administration staffed by talented individuals who are able to effectively carry out the will and aspiration of visionary leaders and the people they represent. Paris displays this spirit everywhere, particularly the monuments and buildings that are administered by the state. Not only are the monuments outstanding artistic creations in their own right; they also provide a sense of national grandeur and achievement. An emblematic example is the monument to Napoleon. His statue sits atop an obelisk-like structure which is perhaps 50 metres tall, enshrouded with spiraling engravings that depict, in minute and detailed chronological order, his major conquests. At the base or eye-level section of the structure, there are more engravings as well as Napoleon’s name, written in Latin, with the title “Emperor-Augustus” (the highest office in the Roman empire). Around the monument there are exquisite buildings built in the neoclassical style, but between the monument and the buildings there is a large amount of space for pedestrians (and a much smaller space for cars). History buffs can stand there for hours and interpret each engraving, from the bottom to the top, until one reaches the apex with the statue of Napoleon. This general structure—a centre with a statue which sits atop a historiographical base or tower, surrounded by wide pedestrian spaces and neoclassical buildings—characterizes other monuments around the city, although of course each is sufficiently distinct to be the basis of a separate analysis. 

Biking in Paris is the best

My biggest treat so far in Paris has been biking around the city with a public bicycle which can be rented for only 8 euros per week. Among other things, this has allowed me to bike around many neighborhoods and analyze the streets—the way they are organized, the extent to which the roads are in tension or in harmony with sidewalks and bike paths, and whether these aspects of efficiency interact well with the aesthetic dimensions— buildings, stores, cafes, and greenery—of the thoroughfares. Paris scores extremely high on all these measures, which makes biking or walking in the city an immense joy. I’ve lost count on how many times, while turning a corner or passing an intersection, I have encountered a street that is unforgettable because of how its elements of beauty combine with the movement of the people, whether they are biking, walking, or driving. On the Boulevards in particular, shops bestride large sidewalks lined with numerous trees embroidered with dense and thick green leaves; this greenery adds vivacious colour while creating a kind of canopy around the sidewalk which provides cool shade for pedestrians. Between the road and the sidewalk, there are bike paths full of cyclists. A striking impression is that the transit lines, bike paths, sidewalks and roads seem to be organically mixed together. Cyclists often seamlessly glide onto the road or sidewalk, while pedestrians stroll onto the bike paths in order to catch the tram or cross the street. I did not detect an iota of evidence of antipathy between pedestrians, cyclists, and drivers. All share the spaces while being sensitive and attentive to the others (although bike paths and sidewalks are much more organically integrated with each other than either are with the roads).

A la glorie de Dieu (Sainte Chapelle)

One cannot speak about the prestige and beauty of public spaces in Paris without mentioning the churches. So far, I have visited Sainte Chappelle, Notre Dame and Sacre Coeur (the last two are open to the public free of charge). When seeing them for the first time, I was struck by the exquisite detail paid to their aesthetic features. My imagination ran wild when remembering the effort required to build such structures. An immense allocation of resources, plus the finest creative talent, was committed to an arduous endeavour, the purpose of which was not lucre; rather, the creators of these structures were motivated by their religious faith. These churches are reminders that humans are not mere beasts, that they have the capacity to aspire towards something larger and greater than themselves, and one of the ways they do this is by creating beautiful pieces of architecture, sculpture, and religious iconography. Visiting Notre Dame was an especially powerful experience for me because one of my favourite writers is Victor Hugo, who authored one of the most beautiful novels ever written, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Most of the story takes place in the eponymous church, and while looking at its exterior and walking inside, I could not help recalling Hugo’s interpretation of the Church and fusing it with my own impressions. 

Elegance

 The elegance and style of Parisians, especially the women, is unlike anything I have ever seen (although women in Milan, Rome and Naples come close). Even women who are less physically endowed because of age or particular physical features often appear to be beautiful by virtue of how they present themselves—how they dress, their gait (walking and posture), and the moderate amounts of make-up they wear. Their outfits—tops, gowns, or shorts—display a playfulness and harmony of colour, are not too tight, not too loose, and hence only slightly allude to their bodily features, as if their intention is tickle and stimulate the observers’ imagination. The presence of these beautiful women really adds lustre to Paris’s public spaces, and I am probably not the first observer to be seduced by this aspect of the city.

One of my purposes in coming to Paris was to improve my French. I have done this by continuing my daily 30 minute lessons (on my computer with language learning software) but also by spending time and communicating with friends in the city. I have also improved my knowledge and “feel” of the language simply by going out and about—buying and reading local newspapers, paying attention to road signs, advertisements in stores, and information plaques on monuments, listening to strangers speak to each other (sounds creepy, but oh well), or simply approaching Parisians to ask for information, such as directions to some important location. Doing all these things has given me a greater appreciation of the beauty of the French language. Like Italian, the phonetics and cadence of French are extremely pleasing to the ear. And like other Latin tongues, French displays a rhythmic quality that makes the language sound artistic or poetic. The masculine and feminine forms make it harder to learn, but they also add a richness and nuance that seems to be absent in Germanic languages like English.

Review of Edward Gibbon's "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire", Volumes 1 and 2

For years I have had a passion for learning about antiquity, especially ancient Greece and Rome. During the academic year, it is hard to indulge in this material because of other commitments. Hence the late summer is when I have the liberty to read more widely, and one of my goals for August 2017 was to read Edward Gibbon’s seminal text, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, before going to Paris on August 24th. It is a massive tome which requires a huge commitment, and I planned on reading it entirely—around 1400 pages, divided into six volumes. I only partly met my goal and was able to complete the first two volumes, which together are over 500 pages. The rest of the book will have to wait for the Christmas break or perhaps the summer of 2018.

           

Nonetheless, that which I read is astonishing in its scope, breath, and depth. On its own, the quality of the prose merits attention for its smooth flow, rich vocabulary, and nuanced expression of the events Gibbon describes. But that will not be the focus in this essay. Rather, I will explore some of the eerie parallels between ancient Rome and contemporary America, especially their shared political values, the rise to pre-eminence, and the corruption of institutions that either cause, or are the effect of, imperial decline. A separate but important theme of the first two volumes is the Orientalization and Christianization of Rome, changes that forever altered the moral and political fabric of the West (and the world). While these internal changes were happening, Rome was surrounded by barbarians—Germans in the North, Persians in the East—which ultimately brought down the empire, and this, too, for better and for worse, permanently and radically changed history. Lastly, The Decline and Fall’s detailed analysis of various Emperors provides lessons on what constitutes good leadership. Emperor Julian the Apostate, in particular, displayed the virtues associated with greatness and which are totally lacking among leaders in the present era.

Rome vs America

Rome began as a small city-state and became master of the known world, mainly via its conquests of all the territories around the Mediterranean as well as Britain. Thus the basis of its power was primarily military; however, its political values also mattered. Unlike Sparta and Athens, both of which had restrictive citizenship laws that ensured the racial purity of their peoples, Roman citizenship was open to conquered peoples in Asia and North Africa, many or most of whom embraced it, sometimes reluctantly, often enthusiastically, for the prestige that it conferred; Gibbon recounts how it was not unusual for foreign ambassadors in Rome to abandon their native land in order to become Roman citizens. Citizenship also offered opportunities for upward mobility: after becoming citizens, talented and tenacious individuals could reach the pinnacle of Roman power.

The most significant territorial conquests occurred when Rome was a republic; at their best, Rome’s republican institutions—Senate, magistrates, elections, Emperor—worked together, harmoniously and sometimes in tension, to produce a well-functioning representative political order. As the empire became wealthy and complex, different factions fought over the spoils, leading to civil wars and internecine conflict which terminated with the victory of Octavius (nephew of Julius Caesar). Octavius obtained the title of Augustus (“Holy One”), as well as dictatorial powers over the Roman world.  This event, therefore, also marks the official end of the Republic. Although republican institutions continued to operate, they were deprived of much of their authority, and ultimate power over the fate of entire peoples rested with the emperor and the army. A concentration of power, unsurprisingly, had a corrosive effect on the polity, and any story of Rome’s decline must begin here.

In particular, Gibbon recounts how the army became the supreme institution of Roman sovereignty, and possessed control over who would become emperor. The armed forces were divided into various orders, and the most powerful were the Praetorian guards, who controlled, among other things, the security of the imperial palace and the treasury. If the emperor denied their requests for, say, better pay, they literally could murder him and ensure a replacement that was more compliant. A striking example mentioned by Gibbon is the sorry fate of the emperor Pertinax, who replaced the vain and corrupt Commodus. After killing Pertinax, the army sold the imperial office to the highest bidder, and one of Rome’s richest citizens, Didius Julianus, purchased it. This was a mistake of epic proportions, even by the standards of the time; not only was Julianus unfit to serve such a complex role, he also had no control over the armed forces, who ultimately killed him as they did his predecessors. It was in this context that Alexander Severus, a successful Roman general of African extraction, entered the scene to save the empire. Severus’s bravery and military conquests against the Germanic barbarians, and his capacity and willingness to share the hardships of the meanest soldiers, made him a hero among his men. When he arrived in the city, his power over the armed forces was unmatched and he was crowned emperor. Historians are generally fond of Severus; he tried to correct the abuses of his predecessors, was friendly towards religious minorities, and redistributed resources to the poor. However, he was a despot who had no intention of reviving republican institutions. The power of the military only increased under his tenure, and in this sense he served to hasten Rome’s decline. Another example of Severus’s contempt of republican institutions was transferring power to his diabolical son, Caracalla, despite the latter’s manifest incompetence.

Severus

One of the key lessons from these events is the fatal tension between, on the one hand, Empire and the concentration of power and/or wealth, and on the other republican or democratic institutions. Democracy is perhaps more manageable and durable in smaller and more homogenous communities where power and wealth are distributed more equally. As a society’s economic and political power increases, these goods are unequally distributed, and become concentrated among specific groups who then have a stake in the perpetuation of the status quo. Increased wealth, territory, and population also creates more complexity, and complexity, whether in nature or among humans, creates pressures for more hierarchical decision making. These two pressures—inequality and complexity—more and more lead to the concentration of power and hence decision making in particular institutions or among specific groups of people. A consequence is that democratic institutions become pantomimes.

We can now begin to see some of the parallels between Rome and America. Both were expressions of political ideals that in many ways were revolutionary. They embraced republican institutions and rejected the system of monarchy which reigned supreme elsewhere. Another was the inclusive, or non-ethnic based, conception of citizenship. Just as peoples all over the world clamour for American citizenship in part because of the prestige associated with it, and in part because of the opportunities it affords, ancients everywhere wanted Roman citizenship for the accrued benefits and status. In both, individuals from marginalized groups could, through talent, effort and tenacity, reach the apex of power. And, of course, both went from being relatively small and homogenous polities to becoming rich and diverse world empires.

A striking similarity is the corrosive effect of empire on democratic institutions. In 1961, Dwight Eisenhower gave a famous speech warning of the threat posed by the military industrial complex. Not coincidentally, this era was America’s golden age, when it enjoyed unmatched military power as a result of its victory in WW2. This victory, plus the Cold War, led to the creation of industries with an interest in America’s imperial governance around the world. And as these industries became larger, they used their resources to sway the media and representative institutions. Recent events only prove the perspicacity and prescience of Eisenhower. Some of the loudest defenders of American intervention are the agencies and groups which directly benefit from these policies. And, like their Roman ancestors, they almost always defend their imperialistic policies in the language of universal justice.

This leads to the obvious question: will America share Rome’s fate and collapse? The parallels adumbrated above suggests so. But there are also important differences which should caution against predictions of America’s inevitable fall. Rome, unlike America, was surrounded by fertile and warlike barbarians, especially Germans in the North. As Rome’s internal rot deepened, more and more it became unable to protect itself against Germanic invasions. In contrast, America is protected by two large oceans that militate against any foreign invasion, and it shares borders with Mexicans and Canadians—two very unthreatening peoples. Thus as America’s internal corruption proceeds, there will be no barbarians to invade Washington to hasten and complete the final collapse. Much more likely is the continued gradual transfer of global power to Asia, and especially China, which, short of some cataclysmic calamity, will continue apace. Another possibility is that some visionary leader will come to power and reverse America’s decline; but Rome’s example suggests this is unlikely. As will be expounded below, Rome had several virtuous and visionary leaders, like Julian the Apostate, who aimed to revive and re-establish the greatness of their country. But they ultimately failed, suggesting that, once the rot of inequality and corruption sets in, it cannot be reversed.

The Transformation of Rome's Civilization

When Rome reached the apex of its power, it was predominantly a pagan society. One of the immensely valuable aspects of The Decline and Fall is its textured account of pagan civilization; the book almost transports the reader into the personal world views of Rome’s pagan inhabitants. Pagans could be very tolerant, but not through conscious effort. Rather, it was because paganism lacked a single and unified system of rules, beliefs, and texts. Gods were everywhere—from the movement of celestial bodies, to the operation of human appetites, even within single households. Thus, unlike their successors, Romans did not believe in the existence a single religious truth and hence they did not feel a need to proselytize when Rome conquered a people; a conquered peoples’ gods were integrated into the fabric of the Roman empire. This produced a kind of universal religious tolerance, but it was not based in any developed theory about “rights”; it rather flowed from the largely unquestioned pluralistic metaphysics of paganism. However, Gibbon reminds the reader that paganism’s tendency towards religious accommodation coexisted with bizarre and outright cruel superstitions. One of the tasks of Roman pagan priests was to discern the will of the gods on major political questions. They did this by interpreting things like the movements of birds, or the entrails of sacrificed animals. The decisions of emperors and senators on important questions of state, questions with life and death implications, would then be influenced by these interpretations. Another constitutive aspect of Roman-pagan civilization was the fusion of religious and political institutions; the separation that Western peoples now take for granted was utterly absent. Thus, for example, the Emperor was also often the Supreme Pontiff, the latter referring to the office that governed religious affairs. Pagan Romans did not believe that every human was created by, and in the image of, a supreme and benevolent God, and hence they lacked any idea of the existence of universal human dignity that could restrain human cruelty. Consequently, Roman fathers had the legal authority to murder their entire families; Roman parents often murdered their own children, mainly for reasons of poverty; and, of course, Romans enjoyed the spectacle of watching criminals being torn to pieces by wild beasts in the colosseum. 

The orientalization of Rome took two main forms—the importation of pomp and luxury from the Persian court, and the spread of Eastern religions, especially Christianity. Here, following Gibbon, I will focus on the latter because it was much more consequential. In one of the more fascinating parts of the text, Gibbon explicates how intellectual trends were propitious for the spread of Christianity. Elite ancient Romans often traveled to Athens and were schooled in the ideas of classical Greece, especially Aristotle and Plato. A key metaphysical difference between the two philosophers was whether the most important element of reality was that which could be perceived directly by the senses, or whether sense perception gave us access to the surface of some deeper reality only accessible through reason. Plato defended the latter, and Neo-Platonists in Syria and Egypt endlessly speculated about the nature of this underlying or hidden reality. For some, it was some sort of non-material substance, for others, an all-powerful deity.  It goes without saying that the Christian emphasis on an all-powerful God with generative, creative, and moral force fits better with the Neoplatonist philosophy, and hence when that religion entered the scene, it found a ready audience among many pre-eminent philosophers.

Gibbon identifies other causes of Christianity’s ultimate triumph in the Roman world, but two in particular are worth discussing: the zeal derived from its Jewish origins and the pure and austere morals of Christians. Gibbon's account of the ancient Jewish nation is not, to put it mildly, very flattering to the sensibilities of modern readers. Unlike other peoples, ancient Jews, Gibbon says, obstinately refused to integrate into Roman civilization. He also says, compared to other groups in the Roman empire, they were inclined to fanaticism and insularity. One of Christianity’s innovations was to create a new religion with a fanatical devotion to a single and universal truth but without the insularity associated with ancient Judaism. The Christian message was open to all, regardless of class, race, or any other arbitrary category. Women were particularly disposed to Christianity because it imposed monogamy and outlawed homosexuality—meaning that their husbands could not engage in the common practise among married Roman males to have multiple partners, including with women and beautiful young boys. Slaves, too, found Christianity appealing, since it offered them a dignity and elevation that paganism did not.

A major difference between pagan and Christian worldviews was that the former emphasized the present while Christians looked forward to the world to come, which would usher in an era of eternal life and justice to replace the evils of contemporary society. In practise, this meant that primitive Christians (i.e., those present from the death of Christ to roughly the 3^rd century AD) did not recognize the supreme value of Roman power, nor did they participate in Roman social intercourse, meaning they often neglected to be of civil and military service to the empire. Gibbon makes the obvious point that this was not conducive to Roman strength; if anything, it undermined Roman power and introduced an element of weakness: if all Romans neglected to serve the empire, how could it defend itself against its barbarian enemies? Accordingly, unlike other religions, Christianity was persecuted by Roman authorities, and Christians received brutal punishment for their unwillingness to renounce their faith. This approach backfired. Many pagans were converted to Christianity because they admired the bravery and the courage of Christian martyrs who would rather be beheaded or torn to pieces by beasts in the colosseum than renounce their belief in Christ. Official Roman persecution of Christians finally ended with the famous Edict of Milan decreed by Constantine, which gave Christians the liberty to practise and spread their faith unhindered by Roman authorities. Shortly after, the conversion of the masses continued apace, but the conversion of Roman elites represented the irreversible triumph of Christianity. Constantine was Rome’s first Christian emperor, and as soon as Christianity obtained political power, it went from being the oppressed group to the oppressor. The Roman Catholic Church was favoured by the authorities, while pagans were marginalized and persecuted. Gibbon reminds the reader that we should not exaggerate the extent both of the pagan persecution of Christians, and the subsequent Christian persecution of pagans. In the first instance, he calculates that, at most, about 2000 Christians were martyred by Roman authorities, meaning many, many more were able to continue their devotion unmolested. And Christian authorities preserved many of the most valuable aspects of classical and pagan civilization, including Greek philosophy and architecture, demonstrating that they did not aim to completely extinguish the elements of the pre-Christian world.

Lessons on Leadership

The internal and external causes of Rome’s decline were mainly structural, and hence independent of particular leaders. Yet the quality, or lack thereof, of particular leaders was not insignificant. Gibbon extensively analyzes all the emperors in the time period that he covers, and there is insufficient space to mention all of them in this short essay. Accordingly, I will aim to shorten the list, and impose some structure by dividing them into three categories: Extremely bad, somewhat bad, and very good. Doing this allows me to distill lessons from The Decline and Fall on what constitutes good leadership.

Students of history are very familiar with the roster of very bad Roman emperors, especially Nero, Caligula, Caracalla, and Commodus. All were inexperienced and egotistical youths who lacked a mature conception of the common good to guide major decisions. They detested Rome’s republican institutions, and exploited the state for personal gain. As Rome burned or was severely weakened, they surrounded themselves with yes-men who would flatter their prejudices rather than provide objective and honest advice. Gibbon is particularly contemptuous of Commodus. According to Gibbon, “every sentiment of virtue and humanity was extinct in his mind. He valued nothing in sovereign power, except the unbounded license of indulging his sensual appetites.” Gibbon adds that “he was the first of Roman emperors totally devoid of taste for the pleasures of the understanding…from his earliest infancy, he had an aversion to whatever was rational or liberal and a fond attachment to the amusements of the populace such as the circus and the combats of gladiators…the servile crowd whose fortune depended on their master’s vices applauded these ignoble pursuits.” Imaginative readers of The Decline and Fall might recognize a parallel between Commodus and Donald Trump.

Those emperors in the “somewhat bad” category had many redeeming qualities even if their vices were sufficiently harmful to prevent them from entering the pantheon of great leaders. They include Aurelian, Alexander Severus, and Diocletian. All helped to vanquish, at least temporarily, Rome’s internal and external enemies. They were talented and rose to power through demonstrated excellence rather than privilege. Severus was North-African and some surviving images of him suggest that he was non-white, putting a lie to the notion that Barak Obama was history’s first non-white leader of the world. Severus demonstrated talent on the battlefield against Germanic barbarians, and his willingness to share in his soldiers’ hardships during long marches inspired his men and made him a hero. Nonetheless, as mentioned above, Severus was a depot who was contemptuous of republican institutions. Gibbon also devotes much space to Diocletian, who also had humble origins: his parents were slaves. He rose to prominence because of his successful campaigns against the Persians, and his conquest of Egypt—Rome’s last major territorial expansion. Gibbon says that Diocletian “had a vigorous mind, improved by experience and the study of mankind…he submitted his own passions to the interest of ambition”. He reigned for 20 years, which in itself is evidence of success when we consider that many of his predecessors and successors died violently after very short periods of rule. But Diocletian also is associated with two changes that hastened or were symptoms of Rome’s decline. One was the orientalization of the court. When Rome was a republic, it was animated by the values of humility and equality, even at the highest levels. Emperors, for example, were considered ministers, and sat with Senators as equals. During this period, it was not unusual for Roman emperors to mix with the masses and interact with citizens in a humble manner. Diocletian changed the dress, language, and comportment of the imperial office. Following Persian practises, he wore sumptuous robes of silk and gold, had his subjects refer to him as “our Lord”, and required that they fall prostrate in front of him as a way to express adoration for the divine emperor. Diocletian also divided the empire into four parts, which ultimately created the perpetual separation between the Eastern and Western territories.

We now turn to the great leaders, in particular Trajan, Hadrian, the two Antonines, and Julian the Apostate. All were loved by citizens and soldiers alike because, in different ways, they displayed the virtues of bravery, wisdom, humility, the love of learning, discipline, empathy, and self-negation for the common good. Although they could not prevent Rome’s decline, they perhaps temporarily reversed or slowed it down. All demonstrated excellence in their endeavours—whether in the form of enlightened domestic policy which established the conditions for prosperity, or by defeating or subduing Rome’s external enemies. Julian the Apostate merits extra attention because Gibbon analyzes him in a detailed and extensive manner. He was raised as a Christian, but his independent spirit was not compatible with the complete devotion and submission associated with early Christianity. At a young age, he went to Athens, and there, in the Academy, he grew to love the classical learning and pagan mythology of ancient Greece. Rightly or wrongly, he grew to believe that the major cause of Rome’s decline was the spread of Christianity, and hence that the only way to revive the splendor of Rome was to return to the gods of the Fathers of the Republic. Unsurprisingly, then, Pagans celebrated his ascension to the throne, while Christians were aghast, and for good reason: with Julian as emperor, the former could look forward to the return of their ancient privileges, while Christians dreaded the revival of the persecutions they had recently experienced.

Julian the Apostate

These biographical features of Julian are interesting but they are not the source of his greatness. Rather, it was Julian’s many talents and his complete devotion to the good of Rome even at the cost of his own comfort and well-being. Julian became emperor not because of personal ambition; in fact, he likely would have preferred to spend his life in the Academy of Athens. He was called, as it were, to the office after the death of Constantius (Constantine’s son) created a vacuum and the need for enlightened leadership to address Rome’s myriad external and internal problems. The army and the people selected Julian, and after consulting with the gods, Julian reluctantly accepted the throne. He endeavoured always to connect authority and virtue, and was always motivated by the well-being of Rome. When he was not governing, he devoted himself to the cultivation of his mind through deep, intensive, and solitary study. He abhorred the oriental despotism introduced by Diocletian, and refused pompous titles like “Our Lord”. His power and authority gave him access to all the pleasures and riches of the empire, and yet he was chaste, slept on the floor, and ate the same foods as the lowest-ranking Roman soldiers.

Julian displayed that unique and rare combination of being a brilliant intellectual and possessing the strength, courage, and talent of an outstanding soldier. When the Persians threatened Rome, Julian marched, on foot, at the head of the legions, to the front lines to fight them directly with his men. Reliable accounts attest to Julian’s battlefield valour: he would charge directly into groups of Persian soldiers, slaying many while dodging arrows. Tragically but also heroically, Julian met his end while fighting the Persians. His last words have been recorded for posterity:

“Friends and fellow-soldiers, the seasonable period of my departure has now arrived, and I discharge, with the cheerfulness of a ready debtor, the demands of nature...I die without remorse, as I have lived without guilt...Detesting the corrupt and destructive maxims of despotism, I have considered the happiness of the people as the end of government. Submitting my actions to the laws of prudence, of justice, and of moderation, I have trusted the event to the care of providence. Peace was the object of my councils, as long as peace was consistent with the public welfare; but when the imperious voice of my country summoned me to arms, I exposed my person to the dangers of war, with the clear foreknowledge that I was destined to fall by the sword. I now offer my tribute and gratitude to the eternal being, who has not suffered me to perish by the cruelty of a tyrant, by the secret dagger of conspiracy, or by the slow tortures of lingering disease. He has given me, in the midst of an honourable career, a splendid and glorious departure from this world; and I hold it equally absurd, equally base, to solicit or to decline the stroke of fate. This much I have attempted to say; but my strength fails me, and I feel the approach of death. I shall cautiously refrain from any word that may tend to influence your suffrages in the election of an emperor…I shall only, as a good citizen, express my hopes that the Romans may be blessed with the government of a virtuous sovereign.”

Julian’s extraordinary example suggests timeless lessons about what constitutes good leadership. His actions and behaviours were motivated by the singular drive of restoring Roman greatness; indeed, he gave his own life for this cause. The talents that the gods bestowed on him were not exercised in the pursuit of personal pleasure, wealth, or power. His conscious refusal to satisfy his appetites and to instead cultivate virtue in the service of Rome is indicative of a complete self-negation, or a lack of desire for his own glory and prestige. His own natural appetites were subsumed to a cause greater than himself, and his willingness to experience real hardship, struggle, and ultimately to die for this cause, when instead he could have chosen not to, suggests a real and genuine commitment. Julian’s example is striking when comparing him to most of today’s political leaders. They would never risk their personal wealth, privilege, or safety to a greater cause. Many of today’s leaders make decisions that have life and death consequences for others, but they have no skin in the game and hence when things go wrong, they do not pay any real price. Julian, in contrast, was willing to risk, and ultimately lost, his life for the greater good of Rome.