ARIUS DIDYMUS
THE KINGMAKER II
(AIR-ee-us DID-im-us)
Origin: Alexandria
B. 70 BC
D. 10 AD
There was more than one great Stoic in Octavian’s life. The other’s name was Arius Didymus, and though we know a bit less about him, we know much more about what he believed and, through his writings, the central teachings of the Stoics.
We know that Arius had come into Octavian’s life sometime around the year 44 BC and that he brought his young sons with him. His sons quickly became Octavian’s “tent-companions,” according to Suetonius, keeping the boy “well-versed in various forms of learning.” Indeed, it was through this close relationship that Octavian would learn to read and appreciate the Greek language.
However Arius came into Octavian’s circle, once in it, he was firmly lodged. He became, in his words, the emperor’s “constant companion, and knew not only what all men were allowed to know, but all the most secret thoughts” of his heart.
When the thirty-three-year-old Octavian triumphantly entered Alexandria in 30 BC, he and Arius were walking literally hand in hand. The long civil war between Octavian and Antony had been violent and bloody, and the people of Alexandria—having been brought into the middle of it through Antony’s obsessive affair with Cleopatra—feared for the worst. Octavian chose to publicly display his affection for Arius not only because it was sincere, but also because by aligning himself with this native Alexandrian, he could reassure the population that he meant no harm. We are told that Octavian delivered a speech in Greek, almost certainly written with Arius’s help, announcing that he would spare the city, for a few reasons. The first, he said, was because Alexandria was great and beautiful. The second, because it had been founded and named after such a great man. “And thirdly,” Octavian said with a smile, and motioning to Arius, “as a favor to my friend here.”
Alexandrians saw immediately how much sway Arius had with their new conqueror. A philosopher named Philostratus who believed himself to be on Octavian’s enemies list took to following Arius around the city, begging to be spared. “A wise man will save a wise man,” he pleaded, “if wise he be.” From Plutarch we hear that Octavian pardoned the man—mostly to save his teacher from the annoyance.
To be used as a symbol of peace is somewhat ironic given Arius’s name (Arius Didymus translates literally as “Warlike Twin”) and darker still given the Machiavellian—though pragmatic—advice that Arius would give his young charge. Whereas Athenodorus seemed to have mainly concerned himself with Octavian’s education and his moral character, Arius instructed him directly on political matters too. The most urgent matter in Alexandria, in Arius’s view, was mopping up the potential threats to the throne. Plutarch says Arius advised Octavian to kill Caesar’s son with Cleopatra, the young Caesarion, telling him that “it’s not good to have too many Caesars.” Octavian would wait until Cleopatra had buried his former ally-cum-rival Antony and until she had poisoned herself to act on Arius’s advice. Then he made the lethal move to eliminate Caesarion, not willing to risk the existence of any rival heirs, even if it meant killing the son of Caesar, whom he had claimed to love. Soon after, the Caesarium temple Cleopatra had built in Alexandria for Julius Caesar would be finished—except it would be dedicated to Augustus instead, his son’s murderer and soon to be the first emperor of Rome.
It was dirty business, but Arius the Stoic advisor believed it needed to be done. With Cato and Cicero and Porcia in mind, he could not countenance another bloody civil war. Nor could Rome.
Since the early Stoic leaders, Stoicism had been moving toward politics and the centers of power, but through their proximity to Octavian, Arius and Athenodorus suddenly wielded more political power than any Stoics in history. Under the reign of Augustus, the empire added more territory than in any preceding period. Its population surged to some forty-five million inhabitants. Augustus now commanded all of it, facing only the most nominal checks and balances, and behind him, as his board of advisors, were two Stoic philosophers. At one point, Arius was offered the position of governor in Egypt but declined it, one suspects because he had far more influence in his informal role with Augustus than he would even governing one of the largest provinces in the empire. He preferred instead to remain within sight of the emperor and help Alexandria from afar, not unlike, Plutarch notes, the way Panaetius helped Rhodes through his friend Scipio.
Augustus had begged Athenodorus to stay another year when he had attempted to resign, but it’s clear that he was deeply reliant on both teachers. We hear from the historian and statesman Themistius that Augustus claimed to value Arius as much as his powerful chief lieutenant, Marcus Agrippa. He valued Arius so much, he says, that he wouldn’t insult or inconvenience the eminent philosopher by dragging him “into the stadium’s dust” to watch the gladiatorial games.
Arius was close to Augustus’s family too, famously writing a consolation—a letter to a grieving person—to Livia, the empress, when she lost her son Drusus, that was more moving, Livia said, than the thoughts and prayers of millions of Romans. “Do not, I implore you,” he had written to her, “take a perverse pride in appearing the most unhappy of women: and reflect also that there is no great credit in behaving bravely in times of prosperity, when life glides easily with a favouring current: neither does a calm sea and fair wind display the art of the pilot: some foul weather is wanted to prove his courage. Like him, then, do not give way, but rather plant yourself firmly, and endure whatever burden may fall upon you from above; scared though you may have been at the first roar of the tempest. There is nothing that fastens such a reproach on Fortune as resignation.” Instead, Arius said, join us in remembering fondly the memories of the young man they had lost and think of the children and grandchildren still living.
The Stoics would have never argued that life was fair or that losing someone didn’t hurt. But they believed that to despair, to tear ourselves apart in bereavement, was not only an affront to the memory of the person we loved, but a betrayal of the living who still needed us.
That’s not an easy message to deliver to a mother who has just buried her son, yet Arius managed to do it with sensitivity and grace and a compassion that she was forever grateful for.
Although we have just an example or two of Arius’s realpolitik, we have much more evidence of his Stoic teachings. Several manuscripts of his writings survive—manuscripts that express not just his beliefs but summaries of centuries of Stoic doctrine. At the core of these writings are discussions of the four cardinal virtues: wisdom (phronesis), self-control (sophrosune), justice (dikaiosune), and bravery (andreia). Marcus Aurelius, very familiar with Arius’s legacy—both politically and philosophically—would put those four virtues on the ultimate pedestal. If we ever find something better than “justice, honesty, self-control, courage . . . if you find anything better than that, embrace it without reservations,” he wrote—they must be very special indeed.
To Arius, there was in fact nothing better than those four virtues. Everything that was evil lacked them and everything that was good contained them. Everything else was indifferent—or irrelevant.