The paradox
There is a medieval legend, a sword so powerful that whoever wielded it could defeat entire armies single-handedly.
There is a medieval legend about a sword so powerful that whoever wielded it could defeat entire armies single-handedly. The legend opens with a dead monarch in his chambers. Outside the window, the smouldering wreckage of the capital city is clearly visible; pillaged and burned beyond all recognition. The monarch’s slayer pries loose the all-powerful sword from his dead fingers and walks out of the room with it.
Here is the paradox the legend poses: How could a sword that bestows so much power upon its wielder, be found in the hands of a monarch slain like a commoner? The answer is slowly revealed as the story unfolds.
The new possessor of the sword initially reaps the whirlwind. The conqueror’s realm grows rapidly and not one amongst his neighbours dares cast a covetous eye towards it. The fear of the sword keeps all of the conqueror’s rivals and enemies at bay.
But slowly things begin to change. The conqueror begins to doubt the loyalties of his trusted lieutenants. He becomes uncomfortable with disagreement. He spends most of his time polishing the sword himself, nursing it like a precious prize, muttering to it. He becomes angry when people try to draw his attention away from the sword towards the affairs of state.
Soon the conqueror begins to fear that people are out to separate him from the sword. Squabbles break out in the court, between those who would pander to his growing dementia and those who would plead for sanity. As the court sinks into the quicksands of palace intrigue, the realm falls into disrepair.
Rebellion sweeps the auxiliary forces of the army, petty rajas cease to remit revenue, merchants flee to neighbouring cities, taking their wealth with them; banditry and disease, hunger and inflation stalk the countryside, while speculators and hoarders drain the hope out of people’s lives.
Meanwhile, confusion reigns at the court. Visceral squabbling engulfs the ruling elites over questions like, who is the enemy and who the friend, who is responsible for this and who is to blame for that?
Concerns about the state of the realm are parried away by the sycophants who gladly indulge the conqueror’s obsession with the sword. “So long as the sword is with him,” the sycophants say, “none of these trivial matters will ever disturb my Sovereign’s peace.” The conqueror nods in agreement.
As the dementia consumes the conqueror, the sycophants reign supreme. “The rebellion is the handiwork of those who want to take our sword away from us,” say the sycophants. “The penury of the populace is the fault of those who do not respect the sword and the security it has brought us.” Everything they see, they tie back to the sword. And the conqueror nods every time.
The tipping point arrives in the story. The conqueror’s daughter is persuaded to carry a message to him, and in his paranoid dementia, he slays her with the sword. Panic breaks out across the land. Everyone flees the realm, save for those who connived to pander to his dementia. With nobody left but sycophants and panderers, charlatans and crooks, tricksters and liars and third-rate rhetoricians, the dementia takes total control of the court.
Then the rebellious auxiliaries appear on the city gates. Soon they are inside the city. Soon they are marching up the steps of his castle. Nothing but confusion and disarray stand in their way.
The contender enters the room, walks up to the decrepit old man holding the sword in his lap, and with one sweep of his own — conventional — sword, slays him.
He picks up the sword and turns to leave with his prize. He pauses to peer out the window where the smouldering wreckage of the capital city is clearly visible; pillaged and burned beyond all recognition. The answer to the paradox is revealed. The monarch’s death and the destruction of his realm does not come in spite of possessing such a fearsome weapon, but because of it.
I’m reminded of this tale every time I hear somebody argue that the terrorism engulfing our country is the handiwork of those who wish to separate us from our nuclear weapons.
Published in The Express Tribune, March 11th, 2011.
Here is the paradox the legend poses: How could a sword that bestows so much power upon its wielder, be found in the hands of a monarch slain like a commoner? The answer is slowly revealed as the story unfolds.
The new possessor of the sword initially reaps the whirlwind. The conqueror’s realm grows rapidly and not one amongst his neighbours dares cast a covetous eye towards it. The fear of the sword keeps all of the conqueror’s rivals and enemies at bay.
But slowly things begin to change. The conqueror begins to doubt the loyalties of his trusted lieutenants. He becomes uncomfortable with disagreement. He spends most of his time polishing the sword himself, nursing it like a precious prize, muttering to it. He becomes angry when people try to draw his attention away from the sword towards the affairs of state.
Soon the conqueror begins to fear that people are out to separate him from the sword. Squabbles break out in the court, between those who would pander to his growing dementia and those who would plead for sanity. As the court sinks into the quicksands of palace intrigue, the realm falls into disrepair.
Rebellion sweeps the auxiliary forces of the army, petty rajas cease to remit revenue, merchants flee to neighbouring cities, taking their wealth with them; banditry and disease, hunger and inflation stalk the countryside, while speculators and hoarders drain the hope out of people’s lives.
Meanwhile, confusion reigns at the court. Visceral squabbling engulfs the ruling elites over questions like, who is the enemy and who the friend, who is responsible for this and who is to blame for that?
Concerns about the state of the realm are parried away by the sycophants who gladly indulge the conqueror’s obsession with the sword. “So long as the sword is with him,” the sycophants say, “none of these trivial matters will ever disturb my Sovereign’s peace.” The conqueror nods in agreement.
As the dementia consumes the conqueror, the sycophants reign supreme. “The rebellion is the handiwork of those who want to take our sword away from us,” say the sycophants. “The penury of the populace is the fault of those who do not respect the sword and the security it has brought us.” Everything they see, they tie back to the sword. And the conqueror nods every time.
The tipping point arrives in the story. The conqueror’s daughter is persuaded to carry a message to him, and in his paranoid dementia, he slays her with the sword. Panic breaks out across the land. Everyone flees the realm, save for those who connived to pander to his dementia. With nobody left but sycophants and panderers, charlatans and crooks, tricksters and liars and third-rate rhetoricians, the dementia takes total control of the court.
Then the rebellious auxiliaries appear on the city gates. Soon they are inside the city. Soon they are marching up the steps of his castle. Nothing but confusion and disarray stand in their way.
The contender enters the room, walks up to the decrepit old man holding the sword in his lap, and with one sweep of his own — conventional — sword, slays him.
He picks up the sword and turns to leave with his prize. He pauses to peer out the window where the smouldering wreckage of the capital city is clearly visible; pillaged and burned beyond all recognition. The answer to the paradox is revealed. The monarch’s death and the destruction of his realm does not come in spite of possessing such a fearsome weapon, but because of it.
I’m reminded of this tale every time I hear somebody argue that the terrorism engulfing our country is the handiwork of those who wish to separate us from our nuclear weapons.
Published in The Express Tribune, March 11th, 2011.