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

Like Arius and Athenodorus with Octavian, Seneca was preparing the boy for one of the hardest jobs in the world: wearing imperial purple. In the days of the Republic, the Romans had been leery of absolute power, but now Seneca’s job was to teach someone how to have it. Just a few generations earlier, the Stoics had been ardent defenders of the Republican ideals (Cato was one of Seneca’s heroes), but by the death of Augustus most of these objections had become futile. As Emily Wilson, a translator and biographer of Seneca, writes, “Cicero hoped that he really could bring down Caesar and Mark Antony. Seneca, by contrast, had no hope that he could achieve anything by direct opposition to any of the emperors under whom he lived. His best hope was to moderate some of Nero’s worst tendencies and to maximize his own sense of autonomy.”

It makes sense, certainly, but the question remains: Could a more hopeful Seneca have had more of an impact? Or does accepting that one person is powerless to change the status quo become a self-fulfilling prophecy?

What Seneca did believe was that a Stoic was obligated to serve the country—in this case an empire that had already been through four emperors in his lifetime—as best one could, and surely he was willing to accept just about any role to get off the godforsaken island he had been stuck on.

Did he know what a Faustian bargain this would be? There were hints. Nero didn’t seem to care about his education—not like Octavian, anyway—and he seemed to want to be a musician and an actor more than he wanted to be an emperor. He was entitled and cruel, spoiled and easily distracted. These were not traits that boded well. But the alternative to Nero was returning to exile in Corsica.

In 54 AD, roughly five years into Seneca’s employment at court, Agrippina had her husband, Claudius, killed by way of poisoned mushrooms. Nero was made emperor at age sixteen, and Seneca was asked to write the speeches that Nero would give to convince Rome that it wasn’t totally insane to give this dilettante child nearly godlike powers over millions of people.*

As if absolute power wasn’t corruptive enough, Nero had clearly witnessed some nasty early lessons from his mother and adoptive father. As his teacher and mentor, Seneca attempted a course correction. One of the first things he gave the new emperor was a work he composed, entitled De Clementia

, which laid out a path “for the good King” and that he hoped Nero would follow. And while clemency and mercy might seem like obvious concepts to us today, at the time this was quite revolutionary advice.

Robert A. Kaster, the classics scholar, writes that there was no Greek word for clemency. Philosophers had spoken of restraint and mildness, but Seneca was talking about something more profound and new: what one does with power. Particularly, how the powerful ought to treat someone without power, because this reveals who they

are. As Seneca explained, “No one will be able to imagine anything more becoming to a ruler than clemency, whatever sort of ruler he is and on whatever terms he is put in charge of others.”

It was a lesson aimed at Nero, as well as every leader who might read the essay after. The world would be a better place with more clemency in it—only a cursory look at history confirms this. The problem is getting leaders to understand it.

The dynamic between Seneca and Nero is an interesting one because it clearly evolved—or rather devolved—over time. But the essence of it is perhaps best captured in a statue of the two done by the Spanish sculptor Eduardo Barrón in 1904. Even though it depicts a scene some eighteen centuries after the fact, it manages to capture the timeless elements of the two men’s characters. Seneca, much older, sits with his legs crossed, draped in a beautiful toga but otherwise unadorned. Spread across his lap and onto the simple bench is a document he’s written. Maybe it’s a speech. Maybe it’s a law being debated by the Senate. Maybe it is in fact the text of De Clementia. His fingers point to a spot in the text. His body language is open. He is trying to instill in his young charge the seriousness of the tasks before him.

Nero, sitting across from Seneca, is nearly the opposite of his advisor in every way. He is hooded, sitting on a thronelike chair. A fine blanket rests behind him. He’s wearing jewelry. His expression is sullen. Both fists are clenched, and one rests on his temple as if he can’t bring himself to pay attention. He is looking down at the ground. His feet are tucked behind him, crossed at the ankles. He knows he should be listening, but he isn’t. He’d rather be anywhere else. Soon enough, he is thinking, I won’t have to endure these lectures. Then I’ll be able to do whatever I want.