There was once a king who had ascended to power through sheer grit and skill and was heralded as the ultimate warrior by the kingdom’s people from the days of his youth when he battled lions and giants as a shepherd boy. Those skills would serve him well when he ascended the throne and became a king. He transformed his kingdom and its army into a formidable force that won battles without his direct involvement. As his kingdom flourished from winning all their battles and taking spoils, his discipline withered as complacency set in. Power had made him reckless.
One evening, as the king walked atop his palace, surveying his vast dominion, his eyes fell upon a woman bathing. She was breathtaking. Desire surged through him—insatiable and impatient. Though he had six wives, the hunger for this one woman consumed him. He inquired about her and learned she was the wife of one of his most loyal officers, a man away fighting the king’s war. But that knowledge did not deter him. Instead, it only fueled his desire, making the forbidden even more tantalizing. Her husband’s absence made the allure of having her that night attainable. The temptation stirred within him like the thrill of conquest in battle, a challenge he felt ready to face and confident he could win. As king, he could have anything he wanted whenever–a perquisite he had long come to expect. He had forgotten his father’s warning to guard his heart from such desires, advice that had saved many leaders from ruin.
He sent for her. He complimented her beauty when she arrived, promising a life of unimaginable comfort. She felt small in his presence, fear flickering in her eyes. She couldn’t meet his gaze, staring at the ground as she answered him with deference. Yet the power of his will drew her in. His touch unsettled her. She longed to leave. “But my king,” she protested, “I am a married woman.”
“So what?” the king said, his voice dripping with authority. “I’m the highest power in the land, above any law or prophet. Did you forget that I am the king?”
The aura of his power and presence slowly consumed her resistance as he spoke. Authority infused his words as if the very fabric of nature bent to his will. She had heard his voice before, but now it felt different—divine, commanding, as though he could move mountains and make the heavens themselves obey him. She finally understood why her husband held this man in such high esteem and why he was willing to die for him in war. She, too, had fallen under his spell. A wave of desire washed over her, unexpected and overwhelming. And so, in a moment when she could have resisted, she succumbed. Moments later, passion erupted between the king’s sheets, searing the bond between the king and his subject into the very fabric of humanity. She thought about her husband the entire time it happened and hated herself. She wanted to die and hoped for it to be over soon. How could she face her husband? What could she possibly say? In a society where a woman’s testimony held little value, would he even believe her, especially with an accusation involving the king?
The king dismissed her when the night was over, drinking heavily to bury whatever remnants of conscience gnawed at him. He had taken what was not his to take. The weight of it clawed at him, but he pushed it deep beneath the surface, hoping the darkness would swallow it whole.
Months passed. Then, one day, the woman returned. The king, taken aback, had tried to forget her, but now she stood before him again. She carried news: she was with child—his child. A storm of panic and calculation stirred in his chest. His reputation. His throne. What would he do?
He schemed. He would call back the woman’s husband to return from battle. He would invite the husband to drink, celebrate, and make him lay with his wife. The soldier would assume paternity, and no one would ever know.
The king summoned the soldier and asked about the war. The soldier gave an update on the conflict. The king said, “Go down to your house, wash your feet.”
The soldier left the king’s house, and the king sent a feast with him. Yet the soldier didn’t go home. Confused, he wondered why the king had summoned him and offered such generosity. Though the king was known for his kindness, this felt unusual. Instead, the soldier slept at the door of the king’s palace with his servants.
When the king heard that the soldier hadn’t gone to his house, he asked, “Didn’t you just return from your journey? Why didn’t you go home?”
The soldier replied, “The king’s army is in tents and camped in the open fields. Should I go to my house, eat, drink, and sleep with my wife? I won’t do that.” His steadfastness, rather than earning the king’s respect, enraged him.
The king said, “Stay here one more day, and tomorrow I will send you on your way.”
The king schemed his next move. He had to get the soldier to sleep with his wife to resolve this quagmire.
So the soldier stayed for that day and the next.
The king called him again to the palace. He praised him, feasted on him, poured wine freely, and brought in singers to serenade him—an honor usually reserved for distinguished guests. What had the soldier done to deserve such treatment? As evening fell, the soldier, having drunk to surfeit, went to lie with the king’s servants but did not go to his house. Instead, he slept at the palace entrance. When asked why, he replied, “How can I enjoy the comforts of home when my brothers are still on the battlefield?”
The king had had it. His frustration deepened.
The soldier had unwittingly sealed his fate.
A sinister thought took root in the king’s mind: elimination was his only fate if the soldier had avoided deception. The king wrote a letter to his general, ordering that the soldier be placed at the most dangerous point in battle and left behind. The next day, he gave the letter to the soldier to deliver, unaware that it carried his death sentence.
That evening, the general wrestled with the letter, unable to comprehend the king’s request. The king had ordered him to position the soldier at the most dangerous point in the battle, ensuring his death. The general couldn’t fathom why the king would want this soldier—whom he had recently honored for his gallantry—to die.
He couldn’t ask the king directly; his orders bound him. But that night, sleep evaded him. The soldier was like a son. He had watched him grow up and had trained him in the art of warfare. The soldier was close to his family—the soldier’s wife being the general’s daughter’s close friend from childhood. The general’s son had enlisted in the army alongside the soldier, and it was the soldier who had stayed by his side when the enemy struck just before the general’s son fell on the battlefield two years ago. The situation plunged the general between the horns of dilemma. How could he carry out this order? What had the soldier done to deserve such animosity from the king?
The thought of disobeying the king weighed heavily on him. If he defied the king’s command, the general knew the consequences: his life could be at risk. But as a man bound by honor and duty, how could he send someone he had cared for, like his own child, to certain death?
For hours, the general wept for the soldier, knowing it was the right thing to do but feeling helpless in the face of duty. The next day, he gave the soldier his final instructions for the battle, pretending it was another day. He had given the other soldiers instructions about when they needed to withdraw.
The soldier fought bravely, unaware the king had already sealed his fate. When the time came, the general ordered the troops to withdraw, exposing him. Surrounded and outnumbered, he fell to the enemy’s blows. His final sight was his fellow soldiers, watching helplessly—or unwillingly—leaving him to die.
News of his death reached his wife. She wept bitterly, guilt and grief entwined like strangling vines around her heart. Had she refused the king, her husband might still be alive. Had she spoken to him about it when he returned from the battlefield, perhaps he would have known.
The king took her into his harem, dressing the tragedy in the garb of magnanimity. The kingdom moved on, unaware of the blood-soaked foundation upon which this new union stood.
But there was one who did know.
A prophet, one who walked with God, received a revelation. He saw the events unfold as though he had been there himself. Was he dreaming, or was it real? What if he were wrong, and this was just a phantasm of his imagination? Fear gripped him. To confront the king was to court death. But remaining silent would mean giving up on his calling. With trembling resolve, he set out for the palace.
When the prophet arrived, the king greeted him warmly. Surprised by the timing of the visit, the king wondered about its purpose. After the usual pleasantries and no reassuring words for the kingdom like other times, the king finally asked, “What do I owe this visit, my prophet?”
The prophet dove right in and told him a story: “There was once a rich and a poor man in the city. The wealthy man had an abundance of flocks and herds. But the poor man had nothing except for one little lamb, which he had bought and raised and grew up with him and his children, ate from his table, drank from his cup, and slept in his arms—so much so that it was like a daughter to him. A traveler came to the rich man, but instead of taking from his flock to prepare a meal for the guest, he took the poor man’s only lamb and cooked it for the traveler.”
The king’s eyes flared with indignation. “The man who did this doesn’t deserve to live! He must pay for his cruelty four times over.”
The prophet gazed at the king as he spoke and delivered the final blow: “You are that man.”
The prophet’s words pierced the king’s heart like a sword, shattering the facade he had maintained for months. Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. The king tore his gaze away from the prophet’s and was exposed and unable to shake the shame he felt before the prophet. For the first time, he felt true conviction, as if spring had thawed his cold heart, dissolving the scabs on his conscience. He now saw his transgression in whole light, and his malfeasance’s gravity appeared grotesque. How could he have done such a thing? After a long silence, the king finally broke it, his voice barely above a whisper: ‘I have sinned.”
This is one of the most poignant stories I have ever read about leadership. The four individuals in the story find themselves at a crossroads: the choice between doing what is right and doing the right thing. I have learned that managers do what is right, but leaders do the right thing. The story captures the essence of that distinction.
This story pulses with the thrill of sex, power, and money—the “triple crown” of human temptation. But beneath the surface, it reveals a cast of leaders tested by high stakes, each forced to rise to the occasion.
The king, with all his authority, failed as a leader. He made choices for himself, neglecting the greater good, and the consequences were far-reaching. No one around him benefitted. Many were casualties of his poor decisions.
Then there’s the soldier, who chose loyalty over comfort when faced with the king’s orders. He could have returned home, but he stayed with the king’s servants, honoring the bond that united him and his compatriots fighting on the battlefield. For the soldier, not following the king’s orders was the “right” to do because it meant standing by his team in solidarity—even at the cost of his life.
The wife, faced with the king’s demand, chose obedience over her marriage vows. She did what the norms required regarding obeying the king’s commands, but in doing so, she violated the sacred covenant she made with her husband. The right thing would have meant saying no to the king’s advances and honoring her husband, even when it meant losing her life at the hands of the king.
The general, receiving the king’s letter, faced a choice: protect the soldier or follow the king’s orders, sending him to his death. As a general, like many managers, he followed protocol. However, as a leader, the right choice would have been to protect the soldier and challenge the king’s command, even at the risk of his own life. He failed to do so. Thus, he failed as a leader.
And then the prophet—his path was clear but fraught with danger. Confronting the king meant risking everything. But the prophet did what was right, using emotional intelligence and courage to appeal to the king’s sense of justice. Ultimately, the king acknowledged his wrongdoing, showing that authentic leadership is about taking ownership, as Jocko Willink and Leif Babin articulate in their bestselling book Extreme Ownership.
Outstanding leadership isn’t just about doing what’s right at the moment—it’s about committing to the right thing, no matter the cost. Nelson Mandela was offered a chance to sign a guarantee for nonviolence and secure his release, but he refused. “Only free men can negotiate; prisoners cannot enter into contracts,” he said. Mandela could have done what was right for himself by signing the document and securing his release. Instead, when the moment came to demonstrate authentic leadership, he chose the more challenging path. He refused to sign and opted to remain a prisoner, believing that what was the point of being free himself while his people remained shackled by the chains of apartheid? Apartheid collapsed a few years later, and all the Africans were finally free because of the likes of Mandela and others.
Leadership is about doing the right thing, even when it’s hard or unpopular. It’s a commitment to what is always right, regardless of changing norms or traditions. Doing the right thing will always be the right thing, period. That is leadership.