Each of us, he believed, is obligated to do the same.
Unlike the all-or-nothing race of a runner like Chrysippus trying not to shove his way to victory, Panaetius took the model of a different kind of athlete when reflecting on how best to fulfill our social duties. He thought the pankratist (the practitioner of pankration, a Greek form of boxing) was a supreme model for capturing the tensions and essence of living a virtuous life. His pankratist is one of the most powerful and illustrative sports metaphors, not just in Stoicism, but in all of philosophy.
As Aulus Gellius records:
Of an opinion of the philosopher Panaetius, which he expressed in his second book On Duties, where he urges men to be alert and prepared to guard against injuries on all occasions. “The life of men,” he says, “who pass their time in the midst of affairs, and who wish to be helpful to themselves and to others, is exposed to constant and almost daily troubles and sudden dangers. To guard against and avoid these one needs a mind that is always ready and alert, such as the athletes have who are called ‘pancratists.’ For just as they, when called to the contest, stand with their arms raised and stretched out, and protect their head and face by opposing their hands as a rampart; and as all their limbs, before the battle has begun, are ready to avoid or to deal blows—so the spirit and mind of the wise man, on the watch everywhere and at all times against violence and wanton injuries, ought to be alert, ready, strongly protected, prepared in time of trouble, never flagging in attention, never relaxing its watchfulness, opposing judgment and forethought like arms and hands to the strokes of fortune and the snares of the wicked, lest in any way a hostile and sudden onslaught be made upon us when we are unprepared and unprotected.”
It’s a metaphor of Panaetius’s creation that would appear, uncredited, in the works of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus—two philosophers who battled their way through life. Unlike Antipater’s archer, who captured the reality of the many things out of our control as we seek to choose well among life’s challenges, or Aristo’s javelin thrower, Panaetius saw life as less theoretical and much more violent and forceful. It wasn’t just a contest with oneself, but actual combat—with opponents and fate. He believed we need to be prepared for the blows that will inevitably fall upon us.
Ultimately, Panaetius would not finish the book, for reasons unknown. But what he had captured in writing was an incredible achievement and was recognized as such in his own time. One of his most politically active students, Publius Rutilius Rufus, who also served Scipio in the Numantine War in 134 BC and was involved in reforms of military training, taxation, and bankruptcy, explained that even this partial work towered over the philosophical and political world: “As no painter had been found to complete that part of the Venus of Cos which Apelles had left unfinished (for the beauty of her face made hopeless any attempt adequately to represent the rest of the figure),” he said, “so no one, because of the surpassing excellence of what Panaetius did complete, would venture to supply what he had left undone.”
For all that he left unsaid, so much was said and established that allowed Stoicism to thrive in Roman political life for the next three hundred years. Cicero claimed, for instance, that Panaetius argued it was possible for a good lawyer to defend a guilty client—provided they were not egregiously depraved or wicked. Not only is it a position that makes sense given Panaetius’s deep belief in each individual’s duty and role in life, but it is also a practical innovation that has been a pillar of the legal system over the last two thousand years: If no one steps up to defend undesirable clients, how can we be sure that justice is being done?
Panaetius was a simple and direct writer as well as speaker who helped rid the philosophy of arcane terminology and its unappealing style—undoubtedly the result of his Stoic teachers’ early influence. More importantly, he made the philosophy itself more practical and accessible for people. As Cicero explained, “Panaetius strove to avoid [the] uncouth and repellant development of Stoicism, censuring alike the harshness of its doctrines and the crabbedness of its logic. In doctrine he was mellower, and in style more lucid.”
He was one of the first Stoics who seems to be less a philosopher and more like a great man. Stoics like Zeno had said that virtue alone was sufficient for happiness, which is simple and true enough but light on instruction. According to Diogenes Laërtius, Panaetius was the first Stoic to believe that virtue was not self-sufficient, “claiming that strength, health, and material resources are also needed.”
Panaetius knew that none of this philosophizing existed in a silo; it is interconnected with other important things. It is in the balance, the integrating of competing obligations and interests and talents that the good life is found and lived.
In 129 BC, Scipio would die, a dear loss to both the Republic and to his friends. We can imagine Panaetius grieving this loss, but also relying on an exercise he had taught his students. Suppose your son dies, he said. You must remind yourself that you knew he was mortal when you brought him into the world. The same is true for friends, he would have had to reassure himself. The same is true for careers.
All things end. Philosophy is there to remind us of that fact and to prepare us for the blows of life.
After the death of Scipio, Panaetius understood that a chapter of his life had ended—all that was left was for him to write the next (and possibly the final) one. He returned to Athens that same year after another great loss—this time the death of Antipater—to take over as head of the school. There he served the Stoa another twenty years, continuing to teach and write. Perhaps, like retired political figures today, he returned occasionally to Rome to lecture, consult with magistrates, or promote his books.
And then he too, in 109 BC, passed from the earth.
PUBLIUS RUTILIUS RUFUS
THE LAST HONEST MAN
(POOB-lee-us Roo-TILL-ee-us ROOF-us)
Origin: Rome
B. 158 BC
D. 78 BC
Politics is a dirty business. It is now and it was then. In Rome, as in the modern world, power attracts ego. It corrupts. It rewards vanity. It disincentivizes responsibility. It is filled, and always will be filled, with liars, cheats, demagogues, and cowards.
Which is why Mark Twain was quite right when he said that “an honest man in politics shines more than he would elsewhere.” It’s a matter of contrast. Of all the political Stoics, perhaps none shone brighter or stood out more than Publius Rutilius Rufus, who stared down Rome’s corruption with a fierce but quiet honesty that was as rare among his peers as it is today.