It was several days after we first spoke of it that the Teacher and I once again had an opportunity to discuss the sword of Damocles.
The rains had come for the first time in almost a year, and most of the people who lived in the Old City found themselves having to tend the collection and filtration sheets that had been laid out for just such an improbability. Water, which had always taken for granted back in the days when we had enough of it, we now considered more precious than gold. The mad scramble now to collect as much of the rain as possible left me and the Teacher, two invalids, to mind the hall we called home.
“There are many versions of the tale of Damocles,” the Teacher began. He did this often, picking up the thread of a conversation long since concluded, with no warning nor provocation. Many found it disconcerting, but as his constant companion, it was an eccentricity I had learned to live with.
“Some say Damocles was not a king but a mere lackey in the court of a great King who showed such envy for the King’s power that he was given the opportunity to sit on the throne for a day. The King is said to have then arranged for the sword to dangle overhead as an object lesson to Damocles.”
“A very effective method,” I murmured.
“Indeed. Much easier to impart learning with such a crystallization of the lesson than to tell the whole story.”
“The whole story?” I asked, my interest piqued.
“It was a different kind of democracy they had in Sirako around the 400th century BC. They had a king who was chosen by the people with the guidance of their philosophers.”
“Their monarchy was not hereditary?”
“Not entirely, although then, as in many parts of the world today, it was virtually impossible for anyone not already part of a strong political family to become even eligible for selection,” the Teacher said wryly. “However, that was not what made their democracy unusual. What set it apart was their custom that every king ruled only for six years. At the end of his reign, the king and his court would be sent to a citadel the very tip of the island kingdom, there to live for the next three years.
“From the highest tower of that fortress, the newly imprisoned king could see the elongated shape of the island, and one supposes that in the proper mood, the kingdom would seem like a blade aimed at his very head.”
“Ahh, hence the sword,” I uttered needlessly.
“Your powers of deduction are astounding, Captain,” the Teacher said lightly, with a chuckle.
Ignoring the sarcasm, something I had also gotten used to hearing from the Teacher, I pressed on. “Why would he be imprisoned like that?”
“The Sirakans feared the power of a strong king, but they abhored the idea of not being able to avenge themselves on a bad one. Thus, they made this practice a part of their democracy to ensure that, once the King’s reign had ended, he would be put in a place where he would have to wait to face whatever accusations might be brought against him and his court.”
“But would that not be unjust? It would be as if the King did not have the privilege of being presumed to be guiltless.”
“If you were to look at it puritanically, perhaps it was unjust. But as we said, the difference in estates between kings and ordinary citizens allows for differences in the way each are treated. We must protect the presumption of guiltlessness that every citizen is entitled to, but we can easily see how it can be different for Kings who hold power in stewardship for the governed. To those who are given such power, much has to be expected in return.
“In any case, every person who pretended to the Kingship knew of this tradition and necessarily had to accept it as a condition to ascending the throne. In essence, once they accept the Kingship, they likewise accept that at the end of their reign, they will be presumed – for a time – not to be blameless. This foreknowledge of the inevitability of being called to account helped to ensure that people never took the Kingship lightly. To a certain extent, it kept Kings honest, if only out of fear of retribution.”
“But what if the new King were indeed vengeful?”
“Then the practice becomes even more effective. Rather than expend his power pursuing his predecessor, who has already been deprived of liberty, the new King can focus on governing. In any case, Kings must show that they believe in the justness of the Kingdom even when they themselves are threatened by it. With such a standard, flight becomes an unequivocal sign of guilt.”
“Under a vengeful King, however, would there not be a great possibility of justice being miscarried? With the former King locked away, can the new King not then manufacture proof of guilt with untrammeled freedom?”
“You forget,” the Teacher wagged his finger at the admonition, “that it is only the former King and his court that are locked away. Not their advocati. They have, thus, not lost the power to defend themselves nor – should the need arise – prepare to prosecute their successor when his reign ends. It was understood that the system itself balanced itself against abuse by raising the spectre of righteous vengeance against the abuser.”
Unwilling to concede the point, I replied: “Clearly, that is the weakness of their system.”
“That it relies on Kings to be reasonable? Perhaps. I for one think it is an interesting notion that the way to combat the absolute corruption of absolute power is to administer a dose of absolute powerlessness.”
“And you say, Teacher, that this solution would have prevented the Dissolution?”
The Teacher sat silent for awhile, as though searching his thoughts. When he spoke again, the sounds of people had begun to filter into the hall. The rain had stopped.
“It might have, if only because it would’ve saved us from the terrible fate of standing in between two Kings.”