Lives of the Stoics: The Art of Living From Zeno to Marcus Aurelius

In another account of a revolt in Sicily, he spoke of a Damophilus, “a slave of luxury and malpractice, driven through the country in four-wheeled chariots at the head of horses, luscious attendants, and a concourse of bumsuckers and soldier-slaves.” Almost with a sense of satisfaction, Posidonius tells us how Damophilus came to a violent and painful end at the hands of his slaves. We can imagine Posidonius expecting a similar comeuppance for Apicius, the gluttonous and greedy monster who was responsible for bringing his friend Rutilius Rufus up on a false charge.

What linked all these historical cases together in Posidonius’s mind was a deficiency of character. “Robbers, perverts, killers, and tyrants,” Marcus Aurelius would later write, “gather for your inspection their so-called pleasures!” Posidonius had actually done that, been in the room with Marius, inspected would-be tyrants and killers up close just as he had observed the tides and the movements of the planets.

From this he was able to pass along insights that were just as valuable as his scientific ones: Be wary of ambition. Avoid the mob. Luxury, as much as power, rots. From Seneca, we get Posidonius’s final judgment on Marius: “Marius commanded armies, but ambition commanded Marius.” Seneca paraphrased, “When such men as these were disturbing the world, they were themselves disturbed.”

After Panaetius’s death in 109 BC, Posidonius would leave Athens for the last time, convinced that the people had become simply “a mindless mob” (ochloi anoetoi). Posidonius probably didn’t think much better of the Romans, after what he had seen firsthand.

Rhodes, at once both isolated and still central to the flow of goods and ideas across the Mediterranean, was a perfect perch for this independent thinker. Posidonius worked on his histories and his theory of the human personality during this time, and they both reflect a more realistic and disillusioned appraisal of his fellow man—an assessment often shared by geniuses. But just as this view was settling in, Posidonius was visited by a bright light. In 79 BC, a young Cicero, then twenty-seven years old, and a kind of once-in-a-generation talent (like Posidonius), would make his way to Rhodes to study under the great man. Panaetius had his Posidonius and now Posidonius would have his own brilliant pupil, who in turn would lovingly refer to his teacher in his writings as “our Posidonius.”

The rest of his years would be spent writing and philosophizing, and of course teaching. It’s clear that his travels and his real-world experience in politics at the highest level informed all three of these domains. Posidonius, like his teacher Panaetius before him, held aristocratic views—today we’d call him one of the “elites.” Except unlike today’s elites, who are often out of touch and surrounded by a bubble of their own like minds, Posidonius had formed his suspicions of the mob and populism from firsthand experience.

He had seen the world, he had seen war, which formed a philosophy—grounded in natural sciences, history, and human psychology—that was sought after by the most important people of his time. This is undoubtedly what drew Pompey, the great general just then rising to power, to Rhodes to attend Posidonius’s lectures.

In 66 BC, before his campaign against Cilician pirates, Pompey visited Posidonius and in a private audience asked him if he had any advice for him. Posidonius, quoting Homer, told him to “be the best and always superior to others.” It was subtle moral advice whose meaning Pompey, with what Posidonius would later call “his insane love of a false glory,” ultimately missed.

“Best,” to the Stoics, did not meaning winning battles. Superior did not mean accumulating the most honors. It meant, as it still does today, virtue. It meant excellence not in accomplishing external things—though that was always nice if fate allowed—but excellence in the areas that you controlled: Your thoughts. Your actions. Your choices.

Even so, the glory-seeking general remained a respectful student. At the height of his powers, following his great victories in the East during the Third Mithridatic War, Pompey made a return visit to Posidonius in 62 BC, and bowed with his army standards lowered at the philosopher’s door. Perhaps Pompey did, in his own way, grasp what Posidonius meant by “best,” even if he could not live it.

Despite being stricken by a severe case of arthritis and gout during this visit, Posidonius gave Pompey a private lecture from bed on why only the honorable is good, in which, through cries of pain, he had to stress that he would still not admit that pain was an evil.

This triumph over pain—over oneself—that’s the “best” Posidonius was talking about. More impressive, he did live it.