The Pagan and Masculine Virtues: Courage, with Temperance
No longer weeping for one another
as Achilles did in passionate grief,
modern man has taught himself
that tears are to be steeled against
in mute acceptance of his grief.
Thus, he grows less like Achilles,
and more like a man who may, himself,
be cause for grief.
Helen McCloskey, “The Right Stuff,” in The Strain of Roots (2003), p. 128.
I am preaching, as everyone should, in favor of “virtue.” I commend it to you. But in its etymology it contains a worry: “virtue” is constructed in Latin from vir, “adult male human.”[1] True, even in Roman times virtus had widened beyond “manliness” to include pretty much what we mean by it now. But as late as Tacitus around 100 AD it was still the normal word for manly valor on the battlefield. One of the bizarre features of the Germani, Tacitus wrote, is that their women were valorous in this sense: “the [German] woman should not think herself exempted from valor [virtute],” since women accompanied their men to the battlefield, as cheerleaders and sometimes as active participants. A woman’s “virtue” in the male and modern sense among the Romans was pudicitia, “modesty, purity.”[2]
In non-Christianizing works through the Renaissance the Latin word and its Romance derivatives kept this whiff of the men’s locker room. Machiavelli especially had in mind men, and violent, proud ones, not women, when he praised the virtù of the prince or of a republic. Thus Milton’s Satan in Paradise Lost, back from his mission to Eden, addresses the hosts of Hell: “Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers.”[3] What made Il Principe so scandalous for centuries after its posthumous publication is that in a religious age it praised no feminine virtue. In all his writings Machiavelli associated Christianity with effeminacy, and with states that failed. In return the men of the Roman Church kept his writings on the index of forbidden books from 1559 until 1850.
In modern Italian virtù has lost its association with men. The historian Carlo Ginsburg thinks that Machiavelli’s usage was in its breadth idiosyncratic, meaning “forcefulness,” and that other Renaissance Italians did not use the word this way.[4] Leo Strauss gives the same reading: “This obscurity is essential. . . . [because] the reader is meant to ascend from the common understanding of virtue [namely, Christian goodness] to the diametrically opposite understanding [namely, manly aggression].”[5] The modern Nuovo Zingarelli gives the manly, aggressive meaning, forza d’animo, force of spirit, only as definition 6 of 12 of virtù, “by extension, literary,” and cites Machiavelli. In Il Principe the successful prince’s virtue was reduced to a manly forcefulness, the good citizen’s to a manly loyalty. Machiavelli drew on Greek or Roman examples of the best—or at any rate the winning—emperors, popes, and generals, the thrones, dominions, and princedoms, exemplars of old Spartan or old Roman “virtue.” The team showing such virtù coheres, and scores touchdowns—whatever the point might be of such “winning,” note the women from the sidelines. Nowadays we make jokes about testosterone; or lament the forcefulness of Osama bin Laden.
Harvey Mansfield denied once that “manliness” is the right translation, and argued that an assertive, showy, violent self-interest is what Machiavelli had in mind. Yet “such virtue,” Mansfield wrote, “is prudence inspired by glory and thus combined with the kind of manliness that is comfortable with ferocity and capable of acquisitiveness.”[6] And elsewhere he and Nathan Tarcov define it as “a new conception of virtue as the willingness and ability to do whatever it takes to acquire and maintain what one has acquired.”[7] Virtù in Machiavelli is not a cool, just, dignified, republican manliness; it is more like machismo: proud, unjust, unloving, intemperate, adolescent, the worst qualities of manliness. But manly, or at least adult male, nonetheless.
We have had a long run of our virtue talk dominated thus by a male idea of courage, three or four thousand years of writings, with many eons doubtless before the writing. Where men rule, courage rules. And vice versa: where battlefield courage is at a premium, as in the Spain of the Reconquista, I have noted, women are devalued.
Masculine identity depends on success in a field of play. The aristocracy and gentry look down on mere tradesmen having no claim to military courage. In truth, trading had its own dangers, of course. But the dangers were emasculating, not a glorious death in battle. They were merely nasty threats to masculine identity. As Jeremiah James Colman, seed-merchant of Norwich, of Colman’s mustard, remarked bitterly about his worries over bankruptcy, in business “I may be a man one day, and a mouse the next.”[8]
The task of bourgeois ideology in the 19th century was to up-value—that is, to masculinize—economic success. It only partly worked. “Courage” defined in the pagan and heroic way still crowded out more balanced or bourgeois views of the virtues, at least in the minds of some men. Justice Holmes in 1895 addressed the men: “Who is there who would not like to be thought a gentleman? Yet what has that name been built on but the soldier’s choice of honor rather than life.”[9] The sports-and-war talk still dominates the airwaves and the board rooms and the cabinet rooms, to our woe.
Paradoxically, the sweet universalism of axial religions devised 800 BC to 632 AD was accompanied by a reinforcement of male governance, and therefore by an intensification of the honoring of courage. To paraphrase Henry Kissinger on academic life, modern politicians (that same Henry, for example) are obsessed with courage because in their lives so little of it is at stake.
Courage is a necessary and splendid human virtue; and certainly battlefield courage is especially so, the last full measure of devotion. Its pathologies arise only from an absence of other virtues to complete it, such as prudence and temperance and justice, those pagan virtues, or love. The stories told to boys hold up an aristocratic ideal of courage in battle. The problem is: merely in battle.
The world praised by the pagan virtues is in mythic origin that of a military aristocracy, free males of rank battling. Slaves and women do not count, unless a Spartacus or a Jeanne D’Arc assumes the habit of an aristocratic male. “In a rude society,” Adam Smith explained to his middle-class students at Glasgow in 1766, as the society was changing, “nothing is honorable but war.”[10] The aristocrat is courageous and honorable, great-hearted in hospitality, quick to anger. Achilles derides the king, who proposed to take Achilles’ concubine seized in war, “You wine sack, with a dog’s eyes, with a deer’s heart. Never/ once have you taken courage in your heart to arm with your people,” and swears to leave Agamemnon’s quarrel with the Trojans. Agamemnon has his “mind forever on profit,” no honorable purpose in such a society.[11]
Achilles himself, though, is imperfect in pagan virtues. He has physical Courage aplenty, the central virtue of a society of quarreling chiefs, but not enough Temperance or Justice or even the fourth and least aristocratic of the pagan virtues, Prudence. He is what the Vikings called a berserker, in the end angering the gods with his eros-unhinged violence against the corpse of Hector. Simone Weil viewed the Iliad as “the poem of force,” force being “that x that turns anybody who is subjected to it into a thing.”[12] Forcefulness in humans is Machiavelli’s virtù, or forza d’animo.
A more balanced model for pagan virtues in Homer is wily Odysseus, a man “of many turns” like a merchant, shown most completely in his name-poem of travel and ingenuity. Zbigniew Herbert says of his “collective hero, the Dutch bourgeois of the seventeenth century,” that “if the Dutch modeled themselves on the heroes of the great epics, surely Odysseus was closer to them than Achilles.”[13] Yet honesty of a modern and bourgeois sort would not be prudent in someone leading his men by guile and virtù out of, say, the Cyclops’ cave. Athena remarks affectionately (for “Two of a kind, are we”) that “even a god/ might bow to you in ways of dissimulation.”[14] In 5th and 4th-century drama, in an Athens at the height of its commercial power, Odysseus comes across even more as a crafty merchant type, and especially a false speaker, as in Sophocles’ Philoctetes.[15]
Anyway the other three pagan virtues—temperance, justice, and prudence supplementing mere forceful courage—typify the Homeric Odysseus, or the Virgilian Aeneas, or, from Icelandic tales, Gunnar Hamundarson in Njal’s Saga, “extremely well-bred, fearless, generous, and even-tempered, faithful to his friends but careful in his choice of them. He was prosperous.” [16]
The problem is that aristocratic stories of courage in battle, even of battlefield courage balanced by the other three pagan virtues, are not the stories of our lives. We do not live nowadays in military camps drawn up before the walls of new Troys, even temperate, just, and prudent camps, most of us at any rate. The We of modern times includes non-aristocrats and non-men, to give us “heroes” in the literary sense such as Anne Elliot or Erin Brockovich. Anyway, non-soldiers.
The stories of Courage-Above-All were always already mythological. After the archaic times of an Odysseus or a Gunnar the little communities jostling with Sparta or Clusium still required occasionally in the ideal citizen the four pagan virtues, defined for a Real Man. Vir in Latin like “man” in English, but not “andros“ in ancient Greek, means “soldier,” too, especially a foot soldier, as in “officers and men.”
But the virtues are to be exercised in a democratic phalanx, not in an aristocratic duel. Horatius and his two comrades at the bridge point the moral, at any rate according to Macaulay’s poem about the event composed in the 1830s and early 1840s. The courageous three are supposed in 508 BC to have held off an entire Etruscan army at the Sublician bridge to Rome by being permitted, according to Macaulay’s version, to challenge the enemy three at a time, sportingly:
But at his haughty challenge
A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,
Along that glittering van.[17]
The aristocratic conventions of the duel are imposed on the history, following it may be real behavior in archaic societies carried into city states—or, as seems much more likely, following the fair-play conventions of the ruling class in 19th-century England. Macaulay’s source, Livy, writing in the first decades of the Empire, five centuries after the alleged event imagines the Etruscans throwing spears in a decidedly unsporting way “from every side.”[18] Even the beneficiaries of ancient freedom were not Homeric heroes dueling one on one.
The citizen armies of the early Western city states from the 7th century BC on were not highly trained duelers like Odysseus or Horatius—or, in that bizarre parody of aristocratic dueling, dating at Rome from the third century BC, gladiators. In a bench of rowers or a phalanx of hoplites they were nonetheless disciplined—that is, Temperate. The ideal citizen of the polis was Courageous and Temperate—rather more Temperate in fact than Courageous, the beginning of a long devaluation of battlefield courage in actual social behavior, if not in story. The oarsmen in Athens’ wooden wall were paid, free citizens. They were not, as was typical of non-Greek fleets in the Mediterranean for the three millennia of rowed warships, slaves or convicts. A significant exception to the servile propulsion of galleys was Venice, at least until 1571, the other republic holding the gorgeous East in fee.
And ideally the landsmen, the volunteer hoplites—literally, “shieldsmen,” from the hoplon, Homeric “tool,” Attic “heavy shield,” the main tool of their kind of war—were small owners with something to lose in their wheat fields from the depredations of invaders. As Victor Hanson has pointed out, though, unlike their wheat fields their vines and olive trees were too deep-rooted to destroy with fire—and even wheat, as a grass descended from wild grasses in often-burned plains, would re-grow next year. He concludes that it was not plants the hoplites were mainly defending but the honor of men-not-to-be-trifled-with.[19] Such men were at first recruited from the free male farming population, taking down their arms from the place of honor in the late-spring season for campaigning—that is, after wheat planting—and usually surviving to tell the tale around their hearths. In Greece the Spartan aristocrats alone were fulltime soldiers, and correspondingly powerful out of proportion to their numbers.
But at Athens in Periclean times the system of widespread physical courage augmented by temperance was breaking down. Hanson notes that “in place of agrarian protocol and phalanx fighting, city-states in search of absolute victory applied capital and technology [for example siege machinery] without ethical restraints.” Athens anyway had by then fewer free farmer/hoplites than outsiders and slaves and especially free tradesmen living on sea-borne grain—with no special stake in preventing damage to crops beyond the city walls. During the Peloponnesian War “military service of all types became divorced from social status.”[20] The armies were infused with mercenaries. Prudence ruled.
The legions of the early Roman Republic by contrast showed a special Courage combined with a special Love/Faithfulness for the fatherland, and more training under Temperance than non-Spartan Greeks would tolerate. The Romans re-masculinized courage, exhibiting an altogether new level of citizenly virtù. Even the tiny group of early Romans, and all the more so that steadily larger group up to at last the millions who could say “I am a Roman citizen,” were hard to beat. At any rate they were hard to beat permanently. They were in fact beaten by nearly everyone they faced—by Etruscans, Gauls, Greeks, Carthaginians, Germans, Samnites, Parthians, Dacians, Picts—but would come back to the task with mad Courage again and again.
Until the century-long Roman Revolution after 133 BC the legions were drawn literally and exclusively from the middling citizenry led by the richer citizenry of Rome itself or of its carefully chosen allies. The equites, or knightly, upper class, for example, had to pay for their horses. Before the Second Punic War, 218-201 BC, the more heavily armed foot soldiers were drawn in fact from the more well-to-do, since a legionnaire under the Republic in its prime paid for his equipment, like the Athenian hoplite, or the wealthy Athenian citizen sponsoring a warship. But as early as about 400 BC the rank and file of the Roman legions were beginning to get some cash payment. And in 107 BC property qualifications for service in the army were dropped entirely. The armies of the late Republic were not occasional citizen-levies but professional and prudent, serving for decades in Rome’s shocking aggressions.
The armies of the late Republic and the Empire were literate, too. All legionnaires were required to learn to read, and were able therefore to act as quasi-bourgeois bureaucrats after the war was won. The occupied provinces run by republics like Athens and Rome, and later Venice or America, and then the literal empires of Alexander and Augustus, had replaced the earlier citizen foot- and horse-soldiers with bureaucratic professionals, and had replaced citizen oarsmen with slaves.
The individualistic Courage of the hero in a duel, therefore, and the collective Temperance of the polis in arms, were not much in demand. In second-century-AD Rome it has been calculated that a mere 2 percent of the male population was under arms, only 160,000 men. A democracy in crisis, such as France in the First World War, armed many millions, 43 percent of its males of all ages; and similar percentages for pre-literate societies in wartime—those peaceful primitives such as the Tahitians, or the less peaceful Zulus in the War of 1879.[21] But usually not. Prince Maurice of Nassau’s armies in bourgeois Holland c. 1600, which engaged in such unheroic and effective tricks as carrying field shovels for trenching, were small relative to the Dutch population.[22]
In empires and democracies, in other words, a steadily lower percentage of the male population has needed to be physically courageous, ever. Only 5 or so percent of the male labor force in the United States bear arms on the job. Or in other terms 3 percent of the male population age 15 or over do. Or, to compare with the earlier figures, under 2 percent of the entire male population, adults or children, eerily similar to the share in imperial Rome.[23] By now, that is, a lower percentage than in early democratic Athens or early republican Rome need be aristocratically Courageous in an arms-bearing way, whether actual or imitative. The profession of arms has become specialized and small, like all professions in a large society, if the society is not fixed on one mad goal of conquest or defense—contrast Frederick the Great’s Prussia, with routinely 15 percent of the adult men in the army, and his blue-uniformed recruiters scouring the streets to seize more.
Modern armies in democracies therefore sometimes look like corporations—prudent rather than courageous. We imagine the soldiers still acting like Odysseus, saving Private Ryan. But as they themselves reply when praised for heroism they are merely doing the job.
* * * *
Or not doing it. At Srebrenica on July 15, 1995, it seems from popular accounts, a Dutch force abandoned its job of protecting the Bosnian Muslims and fled to safety in Zagreb, with Dutch politicians to greet it, and plenty of Heineken beer. The elite Air Mobile Brigade suffered two deaths, both by accident, not battle. Seven thousand Bosnian men and boys were immediately executed by the victorious Serbs—not all of them “under the noses of the Dutch forces,” as newspaper accounts had it. Only a few hundred were executed literally under their noses, according to the English translation of the summary report by the Netherlands Institute for War Documentation in 2002.[24]
A small minority of Dutch public opinion has viewed the episode as shameful, and in particular as a betrayal of the aristocratic ideal of Courage entailed in being a soldier. The minority feels that the intervention by the Dutch battalion created a lotsverbondenheid with the people of Srebrenica which cannot now be tossed away.
Most Dutch people, though, regard the event as a necessary, bourgeois compromise with disaster—a triumph of Prudence, so to speak, getting almost all of the Dutch boys home without a scratch. The soldiers were sent to Srebrenica from “a mixture of compassion and ambition”: the traditional modern Dutch compassion for victims of war and famine (the Netherlands ranks second only to Norway in proportional contributions to international charities), and the ambition of politicians and generals to “demonstrate the capabilities of its showpiece Air Mobile Brigade at a time of cut-backs.”[25] The Canadians had originally garrisoned Srebrenica, and when they went home none but the Dutch were courageously willing to take their place. In the crisis, further, when the enveloping Serbian army tested the resolve of the Bosnian irregulars and of the Dutch soldiers, the French refused to provide air support. The Serbian army was overwhelmingly more powerful than the few hundred Dutch soldiers at Srebrenica. In the words of the report, the Dutch force “had effectively become a defeated battalion in the power of the [Serbian army].”[26]
Yet physical courage is demanded from specialists in it even in a bourgeois society. The battalion was “defeated” without a fight. The Dutch offered no resistance to probes, took up static positions easily evaded by the Serbs, who it appears from their evasions were afraid to bring down the wrath of the United Nations by killing Dutchmen on a U.N. mission. Then the Dutch accepted the Serbian proposal to “screen” for “war criminals” the Bosnian men and adolescent boys still in Srebrenica, whether armed soldiers or merely refugees. Most of the Bosnian men with weapons and hostile intent had in fact already escaped the enclave.[27] The remaining, defenseless Bosnian males were handed over to the Serbs, and were all promptly shot, though only some of the Dutch soldiers, as I mentioned, were aware of this activity, about which many later received psychological counseling.[28]
The Institute for War Documentation, which had been set up long before to give a balanced accounting of Dutch heroism and cowardice, resistance and collaboration in the Second World War, believes that the Dutch general was “forced” to accept the Serbian deal. Hand over the men and boys, the Serbs are said to have offered in effect, and we will leave the women and (small) children alone. The frame for the story recounted by the historians of the Institute is a bourgeois Prudence, a utilitarian calculation of cost and benefit, some thousands of men and boys—whose fate was not suspected, the report implies—in exchange for many more thousands of women and small children.
The trouble is that the context was not one of enforceable quasi-contracts in the flower market of Alsmeer or the offices of Royal Dutch Shell. It was a context of peasant/aristocratic warfare, not bourgeois business. The Dutch force left the battlefield without fighting, having got a “promise” that the women and children would not be disturbed, a promise by someone who had repeatedly broken his promises. On this occasion the Serbs did not actually kill the women and small children. But the outcome does not justify the claimed assumption at the time that the deal would hold. The Serbs had shown what they were capable of. The “deal” looks a lot like an excuse for saving the skins of the Dutch in exchange for putting those of the 8000 men and many thousands of women and children in mortal danger.
Why indeed did the Dutch force not fight and die, as was its aristocratic duty? Why does an army—a part of bourgeois society sworn to putting itself aristocratically in harm’s way, like firefighters running up burning twin towers or police exchanging gunfire with criminals—not exhibit Courage? The report from the Institute offers the practical, Prudent reason: “Armed resistance was not an option here because the [Serbs] would have probably slaughtered [everyone, including also the women and children among] the refugees.” That is the explanation for why an elite force of combat-ready soldiers did not fire a shot.
But if the slaughter of the women and children was seen as probable at the time, then of course it would have been still more probable that the Bosnian men and adolescent boys placidly handed over were due for a similar fate. One cannot offer “protecting the women and children from racial cleansing” as an explanation for the Dutch general’s unwillingness to risk his own life yet simultaneously claim that the same Dutch general did not realize that the Bosnian males over 14 were going to be racially cleansed.
And as the report admits, “it is not impossible to imagine that, on a political and psychological level, the [Serbs] would have baulked at a fight that would have resulted in [U.N., that is Dutch] casualties.”[29] Yes, it is not impossible to imagine. The tactical point, foremost in the mind of every U.N. soldier on assignment anywhere—the triggering function being commonly the point of U.N. forces—is offered as just barely within the range of imagination. On the other hand the fate of the betrayed Bosnian men and boys—unlike that of the women and small children, who “probably would have been slaughtered”—is said to have been unimaginable, a surprise.
If the Dutch soldiers had been courageous, it is possible to imagine that the Serbs would not have attacked them. If so, then on grounds of Prudence, putting Courage aside, the Dutch should have taken action. As Napoleon said to one of his regiments two days before the battle of Jena, “My lads, you must not fear Death; when soldiers brave Death, they drive him into the enemy’s ranks.”[30] In the aristocratic theory of warfare the Dutch should have offered themselves as a sacrifice to the gods of Courage. It is the telos of soldiers to do so. No deals. And happily, probably—but not certainly, for the gods of Courage do not offer certitude—the Dutch would have driven Death into the Serbian ranks; or, better, in fear of him they would have persuaded the Serbs to refrain from racial cleansing.
Or so say the small minority of Dutch public opinion that continues to be ashamed of Srebrenica. The minority has a larger complaint, the grounds for which is exhibited in the Institute’s report. The complaint is that the historians who worked on the report, and the bulk of the Dutch people, are not ashamed. They do not acknowledge lotsverbondenheid. They do not accept for example any present-day ethical responsibility towards the survivors of Srebrenica. They view the slaughters as an unhappy event caused mainly by the other Westerners implicated, such as the homeward bound Canadians or the perfidious French; an event from which the Dutch, fortunately, extracted themselves. A bad business deal. Let bygones be bygones. The Dutch historians have found a balanced, prudent view, perhaps an outcome of the “Ja, maar . . .,” the “Yes, but . . .”-style of consultation in Holland. It is a bourgeois rhetoric applied to war.
There is a time for aristocratic courage. Courage, not Prudence or Love or Faith, is sometimes what is called for. François Jullien wrote in 1996 a remarkable book in praise of the ancient (and modern) Chinese notion of achieving success in war or other imperium by “upstream” manipulation of the incipient—not waiting until heroic virtue is necessary, downstream, with events tumbling by then with unstoppable force. He notes that such a way of life is prudent, effective—but unheroic.
Western businessmen are fascinated by Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, busily reading it on airplanes. It does not elevate to the chief virtue of a general/CEO heroic Courage but rather a bourgeois Prudence:
11. What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.
12. Hence his victories bring him neither reputation for wisdom nor credit for courage.
13. He wins his battles by making no mistakes.[31]
This is not about heroic gestures but, as Jullien puts it, “efficacy.”
For this lack of heroism, however, “there is a price to pay. . . . To confront the world [in the Greek and Western style] is a way to free oneself from it. . . . [It provides] the substance of heroic stories and jubilation [and, he notes elsewhere tragedy, absent from Chinese tradition]. . . [T]hrough resistance, we can make our way to liberty.”[32] Jullien argues that the Chinese sages on the art of war were explaining, in more detail than Machiavelli, how to be a successful tyrant. From this point of view it is no accident that the culture providing stories of Prometheus, Achilles, Antigone also gave us an idea, if an imperfect practice, of freedom. Tragedy, hopeless courage, Roland at the pass of Rencesvals, the Dutch if only they had acted so at Srebrenica, is the choice of the free man.
The text above is an excerpt from The Bourgeois Virtues: Ethics for an Age of Commerce, the first volume of Deirdre McCloskey’s trilogy on the ethical and historical origins of modern prosperity.
[1] Oxford Latin Dictionary 1982, “uirtus,” “uir,” “mulier.”.
[2] For example Tacitus, Germania, 18 Ne se mulier extra virtutem . . . putet,, 19, 30 (virtutem numerare: count on bravery). Pudicitia, p. 19. Compare Plutarch, “Gaius Marius,” para. 19, of the women of the Ambrones, apparently also Germani, “armed with swords and axes,” enduring battle “to the end with unbroken spirits.”
[3] Milton, Paradise Lost, 1667, V, 772, as reported by Raphael. By no accident the same phrase is used by God earlier in the book in promising the Messiah (V, 601).
[4] Personal discussion, October 2003.
[5] Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli, 1958 p. 47.
[6] Manfield, Machiavielli’s Virtue, 1966, pp. 31, 36; and last quotation, p. 42, italics supplied.
[7] Mansfield and Tarcov, “Introduction,” 1996, to Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy, p. xxi.
[8] Davidoff and Hall, Family Fortunes, 1987, p. 229.
[9] Holmes, “Address,” 1895, p. 265.
[10] Smith, Lectures on Jurisprudence, 1766, section 300, p. 527.
[11] Lattimore, trans. The Iliad of Homer, 1951, Bk.1: 225-226, 149.
[12] Weil, “The Iliad,” 1940], p. 163.
[13] Herbert, Still Life with a Bridle, 1991, p. 114f.
[14] Home, OdyssFitzgerald, trans., p. 239.
[15] James Boyd White, Heracles’ Bow, 1984, Chp. 1; Philoctetes, line 111, where Odysseus says, “When one does something for gain, one need not blush.”
[16] Njal’s Saga, c. 1275, section 19, p. 73.
[17] Macaulay, “Horatius,” 1842, stanzas 36-50, 57.
[18] T. Livius, Ab Urbe Condita, II. X. 9, “undique.” By the way, archaeological evidence suggests that despite Horatius’ heroics the Etruscans did in fact re-conquer Rome
[19] Hanson, Western Way of War, 1989, p. 5.
[20] Hanson, “Land War in Thucydides,” 1996, pp. 606f. And see Hanson, Western Way of War, 1989, Chp. 4.
[21] Helley, War Before Civilization, 1996, pp. 34, 189.
[22] McNeill, Pursuit of Power, 1982, p. 128.
[23] U. S. labor force in Protective Services (table 629, minus firefighters, brave but not aggressive) and in the Armed Forces (table 542), mostly men, from U. S. Bureau of the Census, Statistical Abstract of the United States: 1992 (Government Printing Office, 1992).
[24] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” pp. 5, 6.
[25] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” p. 3.
[26] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” p. 4.
[27] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” p. 6.
[28] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” p. 6.
[29] Nederlands Instituut, “Srebenica: A Safe Area,” p. 4.
[30] Quoted in Emerson, “Napoleon,” 1850, p. 345.
[31] Sun Tzu, The Art of War, Giles translation (1910), Chp. IV, at http:// www. chinapage.com/ sunzi-e.html.
[32] Jullien, Treatise of Efficacy, 1996, p. 197.