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The movie “Gladiator” and the end of the U.S. Civil War reflect a tradition that is thousands of years old, and one that has been the hallmark of leadership in most of the world’s oldest cultures.
The idea of honor was once the guiding principle of every aspiring leader, but today, it is mostly regarded as a quaint relic, relegated to idealistic school mottoes and nostalgic Latin teachers.
Trying to explain the importance of living a life of honor today is like trying to explain the value of Latin in an educational curriculum. You might concede that each was once important, but be hard-pressed to see how these old principles of honor are relevant to your own lives today.
What does this have to do with “Gladiator”? I am moved by this portrayal of a fictional character that, to me, symbolizes all that was good about ancient Rome. The general who became a slave; the slave who became a gladiator; the gladiator who defied an emperor. Maximus epitomizes the Roman ideal of a person of honor.
The motto, “Strength and Honor,” by which Maximus exhorts his troops, is not just a catchy phrase in the movie, but was the personal code of the real Emperor Marcus Aurelius, as well as the Roman army. The soldiers in that day took an oath to support the emperor. In essence, they pledged their lives to him. Their life’s purpose—their duty—was to serve. To fail in this duty was to disgrace themselves. The soldiers literally lived and died by this honor code. To a person of honor, a life without it was not worth living.
Even a slave could live a life of honor. Most gladiators were slaves, like Maximus. All gladiators swore a solemn oath similar to that sworn by a soldier. This role of a slave was riddled with paradox. Forced to give an oath, he swore, “I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.” In so doing, even though under duress, by virtue of a sacred promise, he also chooses his fate. He is both slave and free. The horrible duty of a gladiator is to die, but it becomes his chosen duty.
He seems to have little or no choice since he faces death either way. But this is one thing that distinguishes Romans—to keep your word was to have honor. To die keeping your word was to have led an honorable life, affirming to the slave and spectators alike that he had been a person of integrity. What the Romans found so voyeuristically fascinating about the gladiatorial combat was not just blood and guts (although that was surely a major attraction), but the opportunity to observe a noble end to a life, perhaps inspiring the spectator himself to live a more honorable one.
For the wretched gladiator-slave who possessed nothing—even his life was not his own—all he had was his self-respect. How he chose to live and to die in those final moments of his abbreviated life, was the measure of his honor.
I think that the modern world has the concept of “respect” backwards. This misunderstanding may be why we see fewer and fewer examples of it. It is commonly held that one should respect another because it is the right thing to do. From just a practical standpoint, however, this is not a very compelling reason to be respectful. What, after all, is in it for you?
What we don’t get is that we must first respect ourselves. The consequence of this seemingly egotistic act of honoring oneself first, is a life that is respectful. Without an intimate knowledge of what self-respect is, one cannot authentically respect another person. Self-honor is the quintessence of an honorable life. As in the example of the gladiator, a life can be distilled down to this truism.
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What does all this have to do with what happened in Virginia in 1865? In the American South in the 19th century, the classical ideal of honor was very much alive. Educated individuals were expected to be persons of honor, and to conduct their lives according to an honor code. These classically educated men and women tried to emulate the perceived virtues of the ancient Romans. Many, not all, on the southern side believed that they were fighting in order to preserve these ancient values. They viewed the North as barbarian aggressors who did not respect their values and culture.
The conclusion of the terrible struggle between the two sides ended on a most dramatic, almost surreal note. One single gesture of respect from army to army was to transform an incredibly tense and emotionally charged moment, thus beginning a process of healing and reunification.
On the morning of April 10, 1865, preparations were being made for the formal surrender of the Confederate army. Thousands of men stood lined up on opposite sides of an ordinary dirt road, once more face-to-face with their mortal enemies. The inherent tension of the occasion was exacerbated by the strangeness of this unnatural proximity of the two armies.
The vanquished rebels were ragged, starving, and downcast. The Union victors were edgy, facing the still-armed enemy. From opposite directions, two generals appear on horseback, intending to meet midway to initiate the surrender of weapons.
A barked command broke the tense silence and at once, thousands of soldiers in a single, synchronized movement jerked to attention with a metallic snap, and presented their rifles before them in a formal military salute to the opposite line. The one general, acknowledging the gesture, gracefully returned the salute with an elegant bow of his horse. His troops, in an identical clattering movement, snapped to the same erect posture, presenting their arms at attention. Two armies stood motionless, eye to eye, as equals, one honoring the other. There was no cheering or sound of bugle call, just a deafening stillness.
To the listener, it appeared as though the vanquished had initiated the obligatory salute of submission to the victor. It is this irony, however, that ranks this remarkable moment as one of the most memorable scenes of compassion in the history of warfare: for it is the Union general, the victor, who so honored his defeated foe. There was no protocol, no directive, and above all, no expectation of such a generous and respectful act. This one spontaneous gesture did more to heal a nation than could any act of Congress.
More than a century and a half later, how we in victory treat our opponents is indeed a measure of our own self-respect, self-confidence, and sense of honor. We treat defeated adversaries as we ourselves would wish to be treated were we in their shoes.
In defeat, we salute our opponents as worthy brothers because a person of honor knows that his opponent is really his mirror image—and how he treats him is a reflection of how he respects himself.
Strength and Honor.
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Photo credit: Getty Images