There is a humorous scene in the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that you may be familiar with.  Paul Newman’s character (Butch), when confronted by a rebellious member of his gang who wishes to displace him as leader, is challenged to a knife fight.

Butch approaches the aspiring usurper (a huge man named Harvey), who is stripped to the waist and wields a knife.  “No, not yet,” Butch says, “not till me and Harvey get the rules straightened out.” “Rules!” cries the outraged Harvey.  “In a knife fight?  What rules?”  Butch then delivers a unexpected kick to Harvey’s groin, which incapacitates him immediately, and follows this with a punch to the face that puts him down completely.  The scene is amusing, but perhaps carries a lesson as well.  When one is confronted by an overwhelmingly powerful enemy, concepts like fairness and rules will only guarantee a speedy defeat.  One must do what is necessary to survive and fight another day.    

This same point was articulated by the Greek historian Polyaenus in his Stratagems (I.19); the anecdote is repeated in Frontinus (II.5.41).  The story dates back to the misty remoteness of ancient Greek history, but could very well be based on fact.  The Athenians and Boeotians were fighting for control of Melaenae, a strip of land on the border of Attica and Boeotia.  The Athenians were led by their commander Melanthus, and the Boeotians by their king Xanthus who, according to tradition, was the last king of Thebes.  The two leaders agreed to confront each other in armed combat.  When the time came for this contest to begin, and the two leaders were standing face to face, Melanthus raised his hand and said, “You are acting wrongly, Xanthus, and against our understanding.  I am facing you alone, while you have come out with someone else.” 

Baffled by this odd statement, Xanthus turned around to see who might be standing behind him.  Melanthus then darted forward and killed his opponent with one thrust of his sword while Xanthus’s back was turned.  Certainly this was treacherous and dishonorable behavior on the part of Melanthus; but on the other hand, he and his people won.  They even went on to celebrate this event in an annual festival called the Apaturia.  These festivals, the scholars tell us, were held in October and November.  The name Apaturia is apparently derived from the Greek word for “deceit” (ἀπάτη).  We moderns might think it odd that a festival would evolve from an incident of treachery; but perhaps there is more to it than this, and that we are too naïve.

It was a fatal mistake for Xanthus to trust his opponent, and to turn his back on him.  He paid for this error with his life.  Not only does history not mourn him, it actually celebrates the deceit and guile of his slayer, Melanthus.  For in war it is not intention that matters, but capability.  Every enemy cloaks his aggression in expressions of benign intent; the wise opponent will look at what his enemy is capable of doing, not what it says it will do.  Intentions can change in an instant; capabilities and capacities usually require much more time to evolve.  It is a lesson that applies to any adversarial situation. 

Such tricks and schemes are common not only in war, but in negotiations.  Our safeguards here are unrelenting vigilance and verification.  As we have noted, statements mean very little; what matter are capabilities and actions.  On this topic, Polyaenus (I.6) offers a subtle example.  Cresphontes, Temenus, and the sons of Aristodemus made a pact among themselves to share the rulership of the Peloponnesus.  According to this agreement, they would split the country into three parts:  Argos, Sparta, and Messena.  The question then became, who would govern each territory?  Cresphontes had secretly resolved to take Messena for himself; he coveted this region, and would not allow it to fall into any other hands.  He suggested that they draw lots for the lands:  the first draw would take Sparta, the second draw Argos, and the third Messena. 

This suggestion seemed reasonable, and the other two parties agreed to it.  There was no independent third-party supervision or verification of the agreement.  Lots were cast by tossing a white stone into a jug of water.  The three parties did this; Cresphontes, however, secretly fashioned a clump of dirt to look like a stone.  When he tossed it in the water jug, it dissolved.  The lots were drawn; the first stone drawn belonged to the sons of Aristodemus, and the second was the stone of Temenus.  They received Sparta and Argos, respectively.  The stone of Cresphontes could not be found, which meant that he received by default the third draw—the very outcome he had sought to manipulate from the beginning.  The carelessness of his opponents had allowed Cresphontes to make a mockery of what should have been a fair and neutral process.     

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Read more in the complete collection of essays from 2020 to 2023, Centuries.