In the midst of the breakdown of the Roman Republic, during the Civil War between Pompey and Caesar, Pompey made the decision to give control of the military fleet to Cato, the philosopher-politician. A gratifying honor and responsibility for Cato, a chance for the perpetual outsider to put his ideas into action. Yet only days later, under pressures of jealousy and paranoia from his inner circle, Pompey reversed his decision and took the command away.
It was an enormous public humiliation. To be demoted, basically cashiered, for no good reason. But the record shows that Cato’s reaction to this was basically nothing. In fact, he responded with equal indifference to promotion and the demotion. His support for the cause remained unwavering. He did not sulk away or grow bitter. On the eve of battle, when the men—his men, the very men he should have been commanding—were restless and undisciplined, Cato was the one the generals turned to for the right words. They asked him to propel the men to a victory that should have been his. So he did.
See, Cato declined to take the slights personally. And this was possible because he declined to take the honors personally as well. Neither the good, the bad—the dignity nor the indignity—provoked a change in Cato. They could not make him feel better or worse, rewarded or unrewarded. He was immune to the seduction of external events.