A New Perspective on Machiavellian Leadership

Abstract

Recently, much debate has occurred regarding Machiavelli’s standards for good leadership. Drawing on his unusually approving—but still understudied—treatment of Marcus Furius Camillus, a Roman general and ruler, this paper presents a new perspective on Machiavelli’s leadership teachings. It argues that the Machiavellian leader possesses a rare self-honesty that frees him from heroic visions of himself and, thus, from dangerous vanity and from vengefulness toward opponents. Although this leader is no altruist, then, he often benefits his people more effectively than other rulers can, for he views the needs of his state with clearer eyes. This complex outlook differs from the ones that most scholars have attributed to the Machiavellian leader. It also provides us with a nuanced framework for considering what qualities to look for in potential leaders today.

In an age of hyper-partisanship and intense political disillusionment, where can we turn for helpful discussions of good leadership? Some of the most famous explorations of this topic appear in the works of Machiavelli. Yet, scholars remain divided on how best to characterize the Machiavellian leader (Newell 2013). In their work Studies in Machiavellianism, for example, Christie and Geis (1970), working with portions of The Prince and the Discourses on Livy, use remarks like “Never tell anyone the real reason you did something unless it is useful to do so,” “It is wise to flatter important people,” and “The biggest difference between most criminals and other people is that the criminals are stupid enough to get caught”—twenty in all, they constitute the “Mach IV scale”—to gauge the potency of the personality trait “Machiavellianism,” or the willingness to manipulate others for one’s own ends. Someone who “strongly agrees” with many of these statements would be deemed, by the standards of this scale, a “Machiavellian.” Christie and Geis’ work has remained popular among some leadership experts (Deluga 2001; Paulhus and Williams 2002; Gkorezis et al. 2015; Belschak, Muhammad, and Den Hartog 2017; Furtner, Maran, and Rauthmann 2017; Genau et al. 2022; Liyanagamage, Fernando, and Gibbons 2022). But how accurately does it reflect Machiavelli’s thought? Would a truly Machiavellian leader earn a high score on the Mach IV scale?

In recent years, most political scientists have dismissed what Cornell and Malcolmson (2009) call “the old-fashioned view” of Machiavelli as “the teacher of power politics if not political thuggery,” replacing it with one of two others: that of Machiavelli as “the founder of a realistic modern science of politics” (in which politics is separated from “value considerations”) and that of Machiavelli as “the Renaissance humanist … who praised the civic virtue of the Roman citizenry and the liberty inherent in its republicanism” (65). Following in the footsteps of Pocock (1975) and Skinner (1983), researchers such as Benner (2009, 2016), Viroli (2014, 2016), and Cosans and Reina (2018) promote the third opinion, claiming Machiavelli actually advances moral arguments against tyranny and corruption and for a free citizenry supported by the rule of law. McCormick (2011, 2019) goes further, asserting that those who highlight Machiavelli’s republicanism fail to grasp the importance of his democratic leanings, particularly his desire to “empower[] common citizens to resist domination by wealthy citizens” through popular participation in government (2011, 3). Zagar (2021), too, draws on the work of Lefort (2012) to illuminate what he calls the “authentically democratic nature of Machiavelli’s project” (7; cf. Flynn 2005; Bignotto 2013; Alagna 2020). It is unsurprising, then, that the Machiavellian leader appears in this strand of the literature as someone who prioritizes the common good (Viroli 2016)—or even someone who helps establish truly democratic institutions, such as the randomized selection of officials, that prevent him from gaining much power (McCormick 2011).

By contrast, an outlook closer to the second one appears in the work of Straussian (1958) scholars like Mansfield (1979, 1996, 2016), Sullivan (1996, 2016), Lynch (2013), and Zuckert (2017): that Machiavelli’s main project is the creation of a new political order that is free from the enervating idealism of classical and Christian moralities (cf. Hankins 2019). Similarly, Del Lucchese (2011, 2015) claims Machiavelli was the first to “dispose of the concept of the ‘common good’” (Pedullà 2018, 5), viewing politics merely as a battleground of clashing, individual ambitions (2015, 26–30; cf. Ahrensdorf 2016). ¹ Witnessing the political tumult of his own time, Fathei (2018) argues, led Machiavelli to develop this view—to believe, having become “disillusioned with ineffective leadership,” that rulers “sometimes had to set aside ethical concerns” in order to do what was needed to maintain a stable and successful state (104). Scholars who accept this framework (e.g., Ledeen 1999; Harris 2010; Kessler et al. 2010; Pina e Cunha, Clegg, and Rego 2013; Cosans and Reina 2018; Harris 2020) present the Machiavellian leader not as utterly corrupt, but as eminently pragmatic and adaptable. Such a ruler, they maintain, possesses a “flexibility of character” that allows him to move between morality and immorality (Cornell and Malcolmson 2009, 83), boldness and caution (Coletta and Carrese 2015), and humanity and harshness (Hunsicker 2013) as circumstances require.

The debate over Machiavelli’s true leadership standards, then, remains unresolved. I propose to offer a new perspective on it using one of the many leadership examples that Machiavelli himself provides. Choosing such an example appears daunting, for Machiavelli discusses numerous rulers throughout his two most famous works, The Prince and Discourses on Livy (see especially Machiavelli 1998: VI, VII, VIII, XVII, and XIX and Machiavelli 1996: I 9–11, I 29, II 22–24, III 2, III 6, III 13, III 19–23, and III 49), and his portrayals of them are often complex (see Orwin 2016). I follow Schillinger (2016), however, in noting “the attention that Machiavelli … lavishes upon [Marcus Furius] Camillus” in his Discourses on Livy. As Schillinger points out, “Machiavelli devotes, in the Discourses, the most ink and praise to Camillus” (624; see also Benner 2009); he mentions the Roman general and dictator early in the book, then returns to him over and over until the end, almost always holding him up as a model of sense, strength, and levelheadedness. Camillus, therefore, comes to light as a clear choice when considering Machiavelli’s possible leadership teachings. Yet, in the literature, he is most often mentioned only in passing (see Mansfield 1996; Sullivan 1996; Coby 1999; Hörnqvist 2010; Levy 2014; Zuckert 2017; Clarke 2018; Winter 2018; Hankins 2019). And those who do treat him more extensively focus mainly on the same point—Camillus’ superior ability to adhere prudently to the dictates of political necessity (Lynch 2013; Schillinger 2016)—without providing much explanation of this ability, although some go so far as to call him a staunch defender of the public good (Benner 2009; McCormick 2019).

Building on much of this scholarship, I will offer a different and more specific way of viewing Camillus and, by extension, the Machiavellian leader. I will argue that Machiavelli’s Camillus exhibits a rare self-honesty, acknowledging that even when he is serving his people, he remains influenced by considerations of his own advantage. Consequently, he does not see himself as a hero; he does not feel that he deserves the honor and gratitude that a hero’s noble sacrifices often garner. But precisely because he is not blinded by self-glorification, he can benefit his people more substantially than other rulers can, for he is better able to grasp what is really necessary to preserve the security and power of his state. Moreover, he is less likely to desire vengeance against his opponents, which means he possesses a certain humanity that many other leaders do not. Through his discussion of Camillus, therefore, Machiavelli presents a nuanced teaching on what a truly good ruler should be—a teaching that goes beyond each of the current characterizations of the Machiavellian leader.

The Envy of Manlius

As previously mentioned, Machiavelli introduces Camillus near the beginning of Book One of the Discourses, using a story about him to support the claim that calumnies damage republics. Camillus immediately comes to light as a general of some “virtue”; as Machiavelli says, he not only “freed Rome from the oppression of the French”—Machiavelli is referring to Camillus’ crucial role in defeating the Gauls during the first Roman-Gallic conflict of 390 BCE—but also subsequently managed to gain sole power without garnering resentment from the Roman people (I 8.1). ² Livy goes further, stating that Camillus’ victory against the Gauls prompted his citizens to call him “a Romulus,” “father of his country,” and “second founder of the city” (Livy 2006: V 49). ³ Machiavelli, however, does not focus on praising Camillus in this anecdote (though he will do so plenty of times later). Instead, he concentrates on the jealousy of Manlius Capitolinus, another general who had won a substantial victory in the same war against the French. According to Livy, Manlius was indeed an “outstanding soldier” who, hearing the French soldiers stealthily trying to seize the Capitoline Hill by night, had mounted a swift resistance that preserved the safety of that sacred place (V 47).

Manlius, however, was not content with the gratitude and praise he received. As Machiavelli relates, he felt that he “deserved” the same amount of honor as Camillus for his salvation of the hill and for his overall courage (I 8.1). Because he was “loaded with envy” of Camillus, he ended up doing something of which Machiavelli expresses disapproval: spreading hateful rumors about Camillus and the Senate among the people—in particular, the rumor that “private citizens” had kept for themselves some of the treasure, originally meant for the French, that should have been used for the common good. These whisperings, having fomented outrage and discord among the people, eventually forced the Senate to appoint a dictator to investigate the situation. Eventually, this dictator imprisoned Manlius, given that he could provide no evidence for his claims when publicly questioned (I 8.1). These kinds of calumnies, Machiavelli asserts, are “detestable” because “great disorders always follow [from them]; for calumnies anger and do not punish citizens, and those angered think of getting even, hating rather than fearing the things said against them” (I 8.2). By calumniating against Camillus rather than openly accusing him, Manlius, Machiavelli suggests, did nothing more than incite indignation and vengefulness among the Romans. Where a public accusation would have provided a more productive outlet for these feelings and possibly led to a punishment that would have satisfied the people involved, the calumny created a bitterness that prompted citizens to take revenge on their opponents in their own ways (I 8.2).

The first major theme that appears in connection with Camillus, then, is that of envy—which is rooted in indignation about not getting what one supposedly deserves—and the dangers it poses to societies if it is not carefully tempered. Yet, this is not Machiavelli’s last word on the tension between Camillus and Manlius. He brings it up again near the beginning of Book Three, this time expanding upon his earlier description.

The context of this anecdote is also quite different. The chapter is titled “Whoever Wishes to Alter a Republic Should Consider Its Subject,” and Machiavelli is arguing that people cannot succeed at making changes in republics without considering their times and circumstances. He holds up Manlius as a prime example of someone who, unable to recognize this fact, suffered for it. Here, Machiavelli again underscores Manlius’ conviction that he deserved Camillus’ honors, saying that “through him one sees how much virtue of spirit and body, how many good works done in favor of the fatherland, an ugly greed for rule later cancels.” Manlius labored under “such blindness in his mind” that he did not stop to think that the Roman people, loving their freedom, would recoil from someone whose “ugly greed for rule” might jeopardize that freedom. Although they were tempted to entertain his rumormongering for a time, therefore, they did not ultimately support him, despite his previous services to the city (see McCormick 2011, 120–121). The great lesson that should be drawn from Manlius’ mistakes, Machiavelli concludes, is that when people are seeking honor and glory, they must adapt their methods of doing so to their situations (III 8.1).

One might argue that in this passage, Machiavelli is condemning Manlius for yielding to selfish ambition. As Machiavelli claims, Manlius was initially a virtuous man who did “many good works … in favor of the fatherland,” but these deeds were counteracted by his “ugly greed for rule.” Yet, Machiavelli does not end the chapter by saying Manlius should have been less selfish or less ambitious; he says Manlius should have recognized that he was seeking glory in the wrong way, which means his real flaw was the “blindness in his mind.” Machiavelli indicates that it was Manlius’ envy of Camillus that caused this blindness—which, in turn, suggests that Manlius’ mind was so clouded by righteous indignation that he could not see the realities of his situation for what they were. It was this anger, perhaps, that made Manlius’ “greed for rule,” which Machiavelli does not say was necessarily bad in itself, into an “ugly” desire.

But exactly what kind of desire to rule is Machiavelli trying to praise? Does he think a clear-sighted leader is simply self-serving, or is there more to the story? It may be that continuing to examine his portrayal of Camillus, who has so far appeared in contrast to Manlius, will shed further light on these questions.

The Tactics of Camillus

As we have seen, Machiavelli gives Camillus a favorable introduction, commenting on his virtue, on his salvation of Rome from the French, and on his ability to rule as dictator without making the people hate him (I 8.1). Livy also states that the Romans were so awed by Camillus’ victory over the French that they likened him to Romulus, saying he had re-founded the city (V 49). In the chapter following his introduction of Camillus, Machiavelli discusses Romulus as well, albeit in a much more shocking way.

At first, Machiavelli admits that “many will perhaps judge it a bad example” that the founder of Rome not only murdered his brother, but also allowed his subsequent fellow ruler, Titus Tatius, to be killed. Romulus’ example is a bad one, people might say, because it teaches citizens that they can do whatever terrible deed they like in order to satisfy their ambitions. Machiavelli agrees that these people would be right—if, that is, they examined only Romulus’ means without thinking of his ends (I 9.1). As Machiavelli explains, it is almost always necessary for a single individual to found or completely reform a city, which means that “a prudent orderer of a republic, who has the intent to wish to help not himself but the common good, not for his own succession but for the common fatherland, should contrive to have authority alone,” and that this person should be exonerated for whatever “extraordinary action” he must undertake to do so. Reiterating that “what he did was for the common good and not for his own ambition,” Machiavelli claims Romulus’ end—the good of Rome—justified his questionable means (I 9.2).

A few chapters later, Machiavelli reveals that Camillus, too, used means that many would have called wicked—or, more specifically, blasphemous—in order to defend Rome. Machiavelli says that if a prudent leader wants to keep his state “good and united,” he should encourage his subjects’ religious beliefs, even if he himself “judge[s] them false.” Machiavelli suggests that Camillus may have been one of these leaders (I 12.1), then goes on to describe how he bolstered the Romans’ religiosity and how this religiosity affected the city. First, Machiavelli describes a battle against the Veientines—part of a series of Roman-Etruscan wars, this conflict occurred at the beginning of the third century—during which the Roman soldiers, led by Camillus, were beginning to lose heart. Camillus and his fellow captains, however, told their men that Apollo, by causing Lake Albanus to overflow, had sent them a sign that they would conquer the Veientines that year. This story gave the soldiers so much hope that Camillus was indeed able to capture the Etruscan city of Veii (I 13.1). Second, Machiavelli later explains that Camillus had vowed to give a 10th of the Veientine spoils to Apollo once the war was over. Because the Roman people now possessed these spoils, Camillus and the Senate had to command each citizen to relinquish a 10th of whatever resources he had gained. By making this decree, Machiavelli states, the senators demonstrated how much they trusted the people to present what they owed—and indeed, although the decree angered the plebeians, they openly tried to oppose it rather than lying about how much they had already contributed. Machiavelli therefore ends this anecdote by highlighting “how much goodness and how much religion were in that people, and how much good was to be hoped from it” (I 55.1).

Now, this second story is not as uncomplicated as Machiavelli makes it out to be here. As Livy shows (V 23, 25, 32)—and as Machiavelli himself discusses in other chapters (I 29.3, III 23.1, III 30.1–2, III 31.1)—the matter of the Veientine spoils ended up fomenting hatred of Camillus among the citizens, most of whom refused to give up their money and eventually voted to exile Camillus for a time. ⁴ On one hand, then, Machiavelli hints that religiosity is not simply a cure-all for civic discord. On the other hand, he suggests that an unbelieving leader like Camillus—one whose lack of faith allows him to view religious doctrines not as moral imperatives, but as powerful tools—can use it to unify and strengthen his people, inspiring them to defend their state (I 11–14; Sullivan 1996, 38–41; Coby 1999, 75–7; Lynch 2013; Zuckert 2017, 138–41; Hankins 2019, 465–74). ⁵

Moreover, Machiavelli stresses that when the French attacked Rome, the people quickly recalled Camillus because they knew he could “free [them] with his virtue”:

After he had given by himself so many samples of a most excellent man, and had been dictator three times, and had always administered in that rank for public usefulness and not for his own utility, he had made men not fear his greatness; and because he was so great and so reputed, they did not esteem it a shameful thing to be inferior to him. (III 30.1)

To take the second point first, Machiavelli claims that Camillus was able to lead so strongly and intelligently—and was so lucky as to constitute the people’s refuge from the “strong and difficult accident” of the French invasion—that he “eliminated envy.” The people believed in his merit without question, feeling no suspicion that any of them deserved to rule in his place (III 30.1). Furthermore, Camillus had succeeded at convincing them that during his three previous stints as dictator, he had worked not for his own selfish ambition, but for the good of Rome. As McCormick (2019) notes, Camillus had always voluntarily relinquished his sole power upon completing the duties he had been assigned to fulfill (416; cf. Zuckert 2017, 244, 263, 271). Like the first Romulus, then, this second Romulus may sometimes have used what many would call blasphemous methods to achieve his goals—but is it really right to condemn him when these methods allowed him to serve his city excellently?

It would be incorrect to say, however, that Machiavelli believes a truly great leader is one who thinks only of others and never of himself. As we saw earlier, Machiavelli did not blame Manlius for his selfish ambition, but for the indignation that caused his envy and subsequent inability to fulfill that ambition in the right way. What, then, is the meaning of Machiavelli’s discussion of the common good—and his praise of leaders like Romulus and Camillus for preserving it?

Machiavelli’s New Standard

At times, Machiavelli does seem to genuinely commend those who propose laws for the “good of the public” and to blame those who do so “not for the common freedom but for their own power” (I 18.3). It is possible, he suggests, for an “excessive ambition and corruption of the powerful” to exist in a city—an ambition and corruption that must be checked by an even more powerful prince, one who, unlike the other nobles, understands what is necessary to preserve the stability and influence of the realm. Machiavelli clearly distinguishes between these corrupt “gentlemen,” who “live idly in abundance from the returns of their possessions without having any care either for cultivation or for other necessary trouble in living,” and the superior prince, who does not simply revel in his status and wealth, but works to maintain his people’s freedom (I 55.4). Machiavelli, then, does praise a certain kind of public-spiritedness. The question is whether his definition of a public-spirited leader matches the ordinary one: a ruler who prioritizes the common good above his own advantage.

As we have already seen, Machiavelli hints at a revised definition of what it means to serve the common good by indicating that any method, however seemingly wicked, is justified if it is used for the public benefit. In Book One, he goes further by questioning the notion that princes and nobles ever truly prioritize their people. He recalls the time the Roman Senate, “fearing that the plebs would rather accept kings than sustain the war,” stopped taxing the citizens when Porsenna, an Etruscan king, attempted to capture Rome in 509. Although Machiavelli claims this tactic worked for the Senate at this moment—the people continued to suffer the burdens of war in exchange for this boon—he hastens to say that waiting to serve the people until a dangerous situation arises does not usually work. In most cases, he claims, they “will not have any obligation to you” because they will recognize that they are being granted benefits only out of necessity. A ruler, then, should always “consider beforehand what times can come up against him, and which men he can have need of in adverse times” so that he can do for them what he “judges to be necessary” at every point (I 32.1).

Machiavelli makes a similar suggestion at the beginning of Book Three, where he says he will discuss the actions of great, individual leaders and speak only of what “they may have worked pertaining to their private advantage.” Immediately afterward, however, he claims that he “shall begin with Brutus, father of Roman liberty” (III 1.6). By juxtaposing these two statements, Machiavelli raises the question of what the motives of the “father of Roman liberty” really were. Was the good of the city truly uppermost in his mind, or was he working for his “private advantage”—that is, planning how his emancipation of Rome would ultimately serve his own ambitions? It may be that, in Machiavelli’s eyes, the seeming distinction between these two goals is not as meaningful as many believe (Del Lucchese 2011, 26–30).

In these passages, then, Machiavelli heavily blurs the line between deeds done for one’s own advantage and deeds done for the common good. He suggests that leaders are usually thinking of their own power and security—and of what is necessary to preserve the stability of their states, which is closely linked to their own power and security—when they benefit their subjects. The sense of “obligation” (I 32.1) that the people often feel upon receiving such benefits, therefore—the feeling that the leaders deserve some repayment for their willing sacrifices—may not, according to Machiavelli, be rational or warranted. If the people were always clear-sighted, they would understand that political necessity, not selflessness, is what drives their rulers’ apparent heroism.

As previously discussed, however, Machiavelli still evaluates and distinguishes between different types of potential leaders, praising some and condemning others. Yet, he does not judge based on how selfless these leaders are, for he indicates that in most cases, such a purely heroic attitude does not really exist. I suggest that instead, Machiavelli evaluates rulers based on their ability to recognize their own motives for what they are. A leader who is honest with himself, Machiavelli implies, acknowledges that because he benefits his people out of necessity rather than altruism, he is not owed great honor for his public service. Such a leader can therefore avoid the “excessive ambition” (I 55.4) of a Manlius Capitolinus: the overpowering feeling that he must deserve rewards for his noble sacrifices. As Machiavelli has indicated, this feeling is dangerous, for it can distort a ruler’s assessment of his circumstances, causing him to make reckless mistakes that jeopardize the freedom of his state (and, in turn, his own power).

A leader who possesses self-honesty, then, knows he needs popular esteem to maintain power, but he does not crave this esteem. Consequently, he can view his situation levelheadedly, calculating the most effective way to win and keep his subjects’ admiration. Yet, his self-honesty also results in genuine benefits for the people, for it gives the leader a clear-sighted focus on the strength and security of his state—as well as a humanity that many other rulers lack.

The Humanity of Camillus

In Book Three, Machiavelli provides an example of this humanity through his continued treatment of Camillus. ⁶ Here, he praises Camillus even more highly than before, calling him “the most prudent of all the Roman captains” in the context of another anecdote about Camillus’ conquest of Veii in 396. Machiavelli says that when Camillus, who held the dictatorship at this point, “wanted to make [Veii’s] taking easier and to take away from the enemy a last necessity of defending themselves, he commanded—so that the Veientes heard—that no one should hurt those who were unarmed,” allowing the Romans to subdue Veii “almost without blood” (III 12.3). In this instance, Machiavelli shows Camillus acting humanely for pragmatic reasons. He suggests that Camillus forbade bloodshed not because he was selflessly moved to do so, but because he thought forgiveness would make his conquest “easier” than punishment would (see Lynch 2013, 31). Unsurprisingly, then, Machiavelli goes on to reveal that humanity was not the only string to Camillus’ tactical bow; he was also flexible enough to use harshness when he recognized that it was needed. ⁷

The story of Camillus’ siege of Falisci (another Etruscan city) in 394 demonstrates this fact. During this battle, a Faliscian schoolmaster tried to sacrifice the city’s highest-born children to the Roman army, thinking this tactic would “gratify” Camillus and convince him to act mercifully. Camillus, however, refused this offer, tied the man’s hands behind his back, and had the children follow him back into town while beating him with rods. When the citizens heard about this incident, “the humanity and integrity of Camillus pleased them so much” that they immediately surrendered to him. Machiavelli claims that this anecdote demonstrates “how much more a humane act full of charity is sometimes able to do in the spirits of men than a ferocious and violent act” and that seemingly unconquerable forces can be softened “by one example of humanity and mercy, of chastity or of liberality” (III 20.1; see Winter 2018, 109).

Machiavelli’s characterization of this incident is somewhat strange. Camillus’ refusal to accept the children as prisoners could certainly be called humane, but the punishment he had them administer to their teacher could not (Mansfield 1979, 374). Moreover, although the Faliscians were moved by Camillus’ kindness toward the children, Machiavelli gives no indication that they were less moved by his harshness toward the schoolmaster—as Livy says, they “rushed to see this spectacle” and praised Camillus’ “sense of justice” (V 27). Machiavelli indicates, then, that the real genius of Camillus was his ability not only to switch between humanity and harshness when necessary, but also to do so in accordance with people’s moral feelings. In Livy’s account, the Faliscians told Camillus they were surrendering to him because “[we think] that we shall live better lives under your rule than under our law. … You preferred fair dealing in war to immediate victory. Challenged by your fair dealing, we have immediately presented you with victory” (V 27). Camillus’ deeds, which he had performed seemingly at his own expense, gave the Faliscians confidence that he would be better at punishing vice and rewarding virtue than their laws were—confidence, that is, that he deserved to rule, for he would sacrifice his “immediate” advantage to do what was “fair.” As Coby (1999) argues, Camillus “created the appearance of … a common devotion to morality that superseded attachment to separate and private interests” (181; cf. 246). Coby goes on to claim, however, that this seeming devotion was nothing more than an appearance—that, in fact, “Camillus’s humanity was also a fraud” (182) because he punished the schoolteacher not out of a real desire to do so, but out of a need to win over the Faliscians.

I suggest, however, that Machiavelli’s treatment of Camillus’ humanity is more complex. I agree, of course, that Camillus was guided by pragmatic considerations when he presented himself as a selfless hero, just as he was when he presented himself as a religious believer (cf. Livy V 27, 44, and 51–5). Yet, it was these considerations that, by preventing Camillus from viewing himself as a hero, also prevented him from viewing his opponents as villains. As Zuckert (2017) puts it, Camillus was the kind of leader who “recognizes the need to overcome the envy of others by not seeking glory (or vengeance on those who question his loyalty and leadership) above all but rather agreeing to rotate or share command with others” (263). As McCormick (2019) notes, he was “sufficiently prudent neither to take vengeance on the Roman people for exiling him … nor to simply ignore their plea when they call[ed] him back to save the city” (420). Because Camillus did not feel that he was owed glory, he was not consumed by anger at those who threatened to take it away. He was moved to punish, then, not by the desire for revenge, but by the calculation that punishment would be the most effective method for solving a particular problem. To be sure, Camillus’ humanity was not backed by great altruism or compassion—but it was not simply fraudulent, for it forestalled the needless bloodshed to which a ruler’s vindictiveness often leads.

Machiavelli, however, stops short of portraying Camillus as a perfect or ideal ruler. It would not, after all, be particularly Machiavellian to go this far, given his famous dislike of imagined ideals (Prince XV). Notwithstanding his great commendation of Camillus, Machiavelli does also discuss his mistakes and their consequences. How do these failings relate to Machiavelli’s overall treatment of this otherwise exceptional leader?

Conclusions

In Book Three, Machiavelli devotes a chapter to explaining why the Romans briefly exiled Camillus. Machiavelli names two causes, discussed by Livy, of the Romans’ actions: Camillus’ recall of the Veientine spoils from the people and the triumph he held for himself after the Veientine conquest. As previously mentioned, Machiavelli does touch on the people’s anger at having their money seized in Book One, but he subsumes this anger in a discussion of their “goodness and religion” (I 55.1). Now, however, he admits that Camillus was overly “severe” at this point, which stirred great resentment among his subjects. ⁸ Moreover, Machiavelli explains, Camillus’ lavish triumph, during which he rode in a chariot drawn by four white horses, made the people think that “because of his pride he wished to be equal to the sun”—equal, in the context of Roman religion, to a god. This kind of “proud and swollen” demeanor, Machiavelli claims, “cannot be more hateful to peoples, and especially to free ones” (III 23.1). In this situation, Camillus not only deprived his people of goods they felt they deserved, but also awarded himself honors that they believed neither he nor any other human being deserved: “To the dictator, and not to his men, Camillus imprudently assume[d], go the spoils and the glory of victory” (McCormick 2019, 420).

With these examples, Machiavelli shows that Camillus, pragmatic though he was, was not always immune to the illusions created by ambition and pride. At certain moments, even he allowed these illusions to carry him too far down the path of self-glorification, and his people punished him for it. I agree with Schillinger (2016) and McCormick (2019), however, that Machiavelli also uses these episodes to showcase Camillus’ ability to learn from his mistakes. As we recall, though he had an inflated sense of his own merits at this point, it did not affect him so deeply that he sought revenge on his subjects for exiling him, refused to return when they needed him, or clung to the dictatorship when his duties were done.

It is unsurprising, then, that Machiavelli ends his treatment of Camillus on a high note, calling him an “excellent man” and praising his statement (recorded by Livy) that “Neither did the dictatorship raise my spirits nor did exile take them away.” According to Machiavelli, this remark demonstrates that “great men” like Camillus “are always the same in every fortune … Weak men govern themselves otherwise, because they grow vain and intoxicated in good fortune by attributing all the good they have to the virtue they have never known” (III 31.1). Crucially, Machiavelli indicates, Camillus did not delude himself into thinking that any stroke of political luck represented a deserved reward for his virtue—or, conversely, a deserved punishment for the vices of his opponents. Because he had the self-honesty not to view himself as a sacrificing hero (and, when he did slip into that trap, was able to correct himself quickly enough to keep from causing too much damage), he could generally avoid the errors of “vain and intoxicated” rulers who are blinded by the righteous desire for glory. It is this self-honesty, perhaps, that makes Machiavelli call Camillus an “excellent man” and a “great man” rather than an excellent or great statesman. Though he was a political leader, his political successes and failures did not define or consume him (Mansfield 1979, 401–402; but cf. Coby 1999, 186–8).

Machiavelli’s Camillus, then, was surely prudent, pragmatic, and flexible, and his ability to understand what was necessary to secure his state exceeded that of most rulers. By showing that this ability stemmed from his self-honesty, however, I have added to this portrait of Camillus and allowed for a different perspective on it. As Machiavelli demonstrates, Camillus was shrewd, but he was not a purely cynical manipulator; he benefited his subjects and opponents more than many other leaders did, but he was not a purely selfless altruist. Through his discussion of Camillus, Machiavelli teaches that a leader’s recognition of this latter fact—that his private good is not so separate from his public service as he might like to believe—may make him more calculating, but will also largely free him from the vanity and vengefulness that cause so much harm to rulers, their states, and their people. Ultimately, I submit, Machiavelli admires Camillus for this self-honesty, and he uses his treatment of the Roman general to suggest that those who wish to be good leaders should strive to cultivate this virtue. Studying this treatment, therefore, could prove instructive for those seeking to combat the animosity and dissatisfaction with leadership that so often characterize politics today.

In dealing only with Machiavelli’s examination of Camillus, of course, this paper is restricted: It does not explore any of Machiavelli’s commendations of other leaders in the context of its main argument. I do maintain that this examination lends itself to broader inferences about Machiavelli’s leadership teachings, given how greatly and how often Machiavelli praises Camillus in the Discourses. The fact remains, however, that this paper opens up many more possibilities for research on the numerous leaders who earn Machiavelli’s approval. It also raises additional questions about Machiavelli’s Camillus and about Machiavellian leadership in general: Given the insight Machiavelli claims Camillus had regarding the primacy of his private good, what still drew him to public service both on the battlefield and on the throne? What caused him, usually so prudent, to occasionally fall prey to an excessive desire for honor? And what would further discussion of these questions reveal about Machiavelli’s view of politics, its attractions, and its limitations? These are just a few of the issues that remain ripe for scholarly consideration. Though I have contributed to the debate on Machiavellian leadership and its potential effects, I have also shown that this debate is far from over.