The Ambassadors: From Ancient Greece to the Nation State. Jonathan Wright

history of the ambassadors is obliged to fathom. What was diplomacy for? By what rules should it be governed? Which is more important when conducting foreign affairs: moral rectitude or naked self-interest, courtesy or cunning, the urbanity of an envoy or the subtle skills of an assassin? Realism or idealism?

      The great Roman orator Cicero (106–43 BC) offered one prescription: ‘There will not be different laws at Rome and at Athens, or different laws now and in the future, but one eternal and unchangeable law will be valid for all nations and for all times, and there will be one master and one ruler, that is, God, over all, for He is the author of this law, its promulgator, and its enforcing judge.’⁶ When expounding the rules and rubrics of diplomacy, the idealist insists, one must abide by the dictates of a universal moral order. This might be Cicero’s God, Asoka’s dhamma, or even the modern notion of a binding Law of Nations, but in all cases ethical imperatives govern the parleys between societies. Of course, rulers invariably engage in diplomacy to further their own best interests, but there is still a right way and a wrong way to conduct foreign affairs. Justice and fair play are not only worth pursuing in and of themselves; they also foster dynamic, respectful relationships.

      Realists regard this as naïve, and look instead to self-interest and contingency. Higher justice is a chimera, they suggest, and rather than genuflecting to a benign Law of Nations, political leaders ought to abide by the grittier realities of the Law of Nature. The strong will always dominate the weak, the pursuit of power and influence is both noble and necessary, and if you do not strive to rule over others, then, in time, others will assuredly strive to rule over you.

      Classical Athens, to look backwards for a moment, is often credited with an uncompromisingly realist outlook. In 416 BC, during the Peloponnesian War, the city launched an expedition against the island of Melos, a Spartan colony that stubbornly refused to ally itself with the Athenian Empire. Envoys were sent to treat with the island’s governors. ‘On our side,’ the Athenians began, ‘we will not use fine phrases,’ nor claim that Athens deserves its empire because of past services to the Greek world. When reaching their decision, the Melians should eschew moralizing and ‘try to get what it is possible for you to get…When matters are discussed by practical people,’ the just outcome is always determined by the fact that ‘the strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to accept’.

      In the present instance, ‘we rule the sea and you are islanders, and weaker islanders than the rest.’ Any appeal to ‘such a thing as fair play and just dealing’ was given short shrift. The ‘path of justice and honour’ led to danger the path of self-interest to safety. ‘There is nothing disgraceful in giving way to the greatest city in Hellas when she is offering you such reasonable terms – alliance on a tribute-paying basis and liberty to enjoy your own property.’ Athens was simply behaving as a great power ought to: expanding its influence so that it might flourish.

      The Melians were unconvinced. ‘Our decision, Athenians, is just the same as it was at first. We are not prepared to give up in a short moment the liberty which our city has enjoyed from its foundation for seven hundred years. We put our trust in the fortune that the gods will send…and in the help of men – that is, of the Spartans.’ That trust was misplaced and, after a period of siege, ‘the Melians surrendered unconditionally to the Athenians, who put to death all the men of military age, and sold the women and children as slaves.’⁷

      This account of the so-called Melian dialogue comes from the histories of Thucydides (460–400 BC), who is often claimed as a founding father of realist theorizing. Undoubtedly, he offers a skewed account of Greek statecraft. He had a particular view of the nature of Greek political life, a precise (and, to some tastes, compelling) theory about how the affairs of men were governed, and he shaped his histories accordingly. But if he exaggerated, Thucydides, as great an historian as the world would ever know, was surely correct in diagnosing naked self-interest as one of the engines of Greek politics. However, the tradition he inaugurated (which would be carried forward by philosophers such as Niccolò‘ Machiavelli and Thomas Hobbes) had a less familiar, but no less vibrant, counterpart in the East, which brings us back to Kautilya’s Arthasastra.

      ii. The Arthasastra

      According to Kautilya’s theory, in the Mauryan political world everything turned on the character of the king. If he ‘is energetic, his subjects will be equally energetic. If he is reckless, they will be reckless likewise.’ Kautilya advised any reputable monarch to divide his day into segments of one and a half hours. His night-time hours were to be every bit as regimented.

      During the first one-eighth part of the night, he shall receive secret emissaries; during the second, he shall attend to bathing and supper and study; during the third, he shall enter the bed-chamber amid the sound of trumpets and enjoy sleep during the fourth and fifth parts. Having been awakened by the sound of trumpets during the sixth part, he shall recall to his mind the injunctions of sciences as well as the day’s duties; during the seventh, he shall sit considering administrative measures and send out spies; and during the eighth division of the night, he shall receive benedictions from sacrificial priests, teachers, and the high priest, and having seen his physician, chief cook and astrologer, and having saluted both a cow with its calf and a bull by circumambulating around them, he shall get into his court.

      An approachable king was likely to be a popular king. ‘When in the court, he shall never cause his petitioners to wait at the door, for when a king makes himself inaccessible to his people and entrusts work to his immediate officers, he may be sure to engender confusion in business, and to cause public disaffection.’ He should, therefore, ‘personally attend to the business of gods, of heretics, of Brahmans learned in the Vedas, of cattle, of sacred places, of minors, the aged, the afflicted, the helpless, and of women’. Indeed, the Arthasastra is, in many ways, a primer in enlightened monarchy. Domestic affairs were to be conducted with justice and despatch; measures were to be put in place to protect the population from natural disasters and to safeguard the rights and privileges of merchants.

      Justice was never to be arbitrary, but it could sometimes be severe. Torture was a legitimate investigative technique, although it was not to be employed against certain classes of people: pregnant women, priests, ‘ignoramuses, youngsters, the aged, the afflicted, persons under intoxication, lunatics, persons suffering from hunger, thirst, or fatigue from journey, persons who have confessed of their own accord, and persons who are very weak – none of these shall be subjected to torture’.

      A terrifying variety of punishments awaited everyone else:

      blows with a cane: twelve beats on each of the thighs; twenty-eight beats with a stick of the tree; thirty-two beats on each palm of the hands and on each sole of the feet; two on the knuckles, the hands being joined so as to appear like a scorpion…burning one of the joints of a finger after the accused has been made to drink rice gruel; heating his body for a day after he has been made to drink oil; causing him to lie on coarse green grass for a night in winter.

      Those adjudged guilty lost all hope of clemency. Anyone who stole a chicken, mongoose, dog or pig could either pay a hefty fine or have the tip of his nose severed. ‘He who castrates a man shall have his generative organ cut off,’ while ‘any person who aims at the kingdom, who forces entrance into the king’s harem, who instigates wild tribes or enemies against the king, or who creates disaffection in forts, country parts, or in the army, shall be burnt alive from head to foot.’

      The flinty character of domestic politics extended to the Mauryans’ dealings with other kingdoms. The empire’s fortunes were not determined by the randomness of fate, Kautilya insisted, but by the decisions rulers made. Kautilya offered a simple but elegant analysis of Indian geopolitics. The king ought to regard his immediate neighbour as his enemy, and the neighbour beyond that as his ally, and so on in a system of concentric circles. He should adjust his policy according to his potency and resources; when strong, he should strike, and when weak he should temporize.

      At all times, however, he should do everything possible to gather reliable intelligence,