The life and death of the Greek philosopher Anaxarchus remain among the most astonishing episodes in the ancient world with intellectual detachment, political entanglement, and physical endurance colliding in a story that borders on the unbelievable.
Not many accounts from antiquity stop you in your tracks quite like Anaxarchus’ final moments. He was a man who, while being literally crushed to death in a giant stone mortar, found the composure to taunt his killer, and when threatened with having his tongue cut out, bit it off himself and spat it at the tyrant’s feet. It is the kind of story that sounds too dramatic to be true, yet it has survived for more than two thousand years.
Anaxarchus was born in Abdera, a Greek city in Thrace, sometime in the fourth century BC. He was a philosopher in the tradition of Democritus, the atomist who argued that everything in existence is made up of atoms moving through empty space. It is a worldview that tends to encourage detachment from material concerns, including, as it turned out, one’s own body.
He is perhaps best known today for traveling with Alexander the Great on his campaigns across Asia, where he also kept company with Pyrrho, the figure often associated with the development of Greek skepticism. The two are said to have traveled as far as India, engaging in discussions with ascetic philosophers there. Whether that journey deepened his indifference to physical suffering or simply reinforced his beliefs is impossible to determine. What is clear is that by the time things turned dark for Anaxarchus, he was already a man who had made his peace with the idea that the body is merely a temporary vessel.
The Greek philosopher Anaxarchus and the joke that led to a powerful enemy
His downfall began, as so many downfalls do, at a dinner party. At a banquet in Tyre, Alexander asked Anaxarchus what he thought of the spread. The philosopher said it was wonderful, but it would be even better if they were served the head of a certain regional governor. As he proclaimed this, he pointedly stared at Nicocreon, the tyrant of Salamis in Cyprus, who was sitting right there at the table with them.
It was a withering insult delivered with total confidence, the kind you can only really pull off when you have the most powerful man in the world sitting next to you. Nicocreon said nothing at the moment, but he didn’t forget.
Prior to that, Anaxarchus had already proven he wasn’t in the business of flattering Alexander like everyone else at court. When the king was wounded in battle and anxious to keep up his image as something more than mortal, Anaxarchus reportedly pointed at the blood and said, matter-of-factly, that it looked like ordinary human blood to him—not the divine ichor of the gods. Alexander apparently took this in good humor, but not everyone would have done so.
The mortar
Alexander died in 323 BC, and with him went any protection Anaxarchus had enjoyed. Shortly afterwards, the philosopher was shipwrecked off the coast of Cyprus, the worst possible place he could have landed, given who ruled it. Nicocreon had him arrested immediately. For his revenge, he chose something theatrical and horrible: Anaxarchus was placed inside a large stone mortar and beaten with iron pestles.
What happened next is why this story has survived two and a half thousand years. Rather than screaming or begging, Anaxarchus called out to his executioners that they were only pounding the container—they could never pound Anaxarchus himself. Nicocreon, furious that he was losing the psychological battle even while winning the physical one, threatened to cut off his tongue. So Anaxarchus simply bit it off himself and spat it at him.
There’s something almost uncomfortable about this story because it sets such an impossible standard. Most of us will never face anything remotely similar to what Anaxarchus confronted, and most of us, if we’re honest, wouldn’t handle it with anything resembling his composure—but that’s not really the point.
What his death illustrates (what philosophers from his tradition were always trying to articulate) is the difference between what can be taken from you and what can’t. Your circumstances, body, and safety might all be up for grabs. Your stance, the manner in which you handle situations, and your refusal to allow others to define your defeat are, however, ultimately within your control.
Tyrants throughout history have understood this, and this is why they don’t just want to hurt people—they aim to break them as well. Anaxarchus denied Nicocreon that satisfaction entirely, and in doing so, he outlasted him by about two and a half millennia.
That’s a pretty good return on one very bad afternoon.
Related: Anaxarchus: The Greek Philosopher Who Followed Alexander the Great on His Campaigns
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