A Collapsed Republic: Lessons from Ancient Rome for Modern America

This is a tale that has been told and retold. The crossing of a sacred river, the casting of a fateful die — the tipping of a domino that would set off a chain reaction; one that would lead to the final breath of a republic long in its death throes. When Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon in 49 BCE he knew full well it was in defiance of Roman law. For a Roman General to bring his armies across the border of Italy proper was considered an act of insurrection. But Caesar had gambles to make, hands to force. In crossing that river he started a civil war that would tear Rome apart along its already hardened fault lines; he triggered the end of a Republic which had stood for approximately four hundred and eighty years. 

But we can’t give Caesar all of the credit. Rome was a state governed largely by traditions and etiquette, and the past century had paved the way for those who would defy and shatter those traditions. From the populism of the Gracchi brothers in the middle-second century BCE, to the authoritarianism of Lucius Cornelius Sulla not fifty years before Caesar’s historic crossing, the foundations of the seminal state had long begun to display their cracks; enough for those who would take advantage to do just that. It was a lengthy process, and although he did suffer a death most unnatural, not even Caesar would be alive to witness the republic's final breath. That honour would belong to his adopted son and great-nephew — Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, who would later become known as Augustus. 

It must be said that history rarely repeats itself — but the annals of the past are filled with musical resonance that rhyme with our own time. For a plurality of reasons, the Roman republic turned ever more towards populism, demagoguery, culture war, and the smashing of tradition. In this post I will attempt to draw clear parallels between the unprecedented events currently taking place in the United States of America, and those that occurred over two millennia ago on the Mediterranean peninsula. We’ll begin by discussing a facet we’ve lightly touched upon already: the erosion of civic and social norms. 

The remnants of the Roman Forum. Fiery orations were delivered here by the Republic’s many charismatic senators.

A republic is built not only on laws, but upon a rich history of traditions and unwritten rules. History has shown us that when these rules are broken, they are not just broken, but smashed. They are redefined, and what was once unimaginable becomes commonplace. When Tiberius Gracchus bypassed the Roman Senate in 133 BCE by bringing his land reform legislation directly to the Plebeian Assembly—denying the senate of its traditional opportunity to reject the proposal—it had a massively destabilising effect. No law was broken, but it undermined the senate’s authority, weakening it and setting a precedent that popular support could override the tried and true, albeit merely traditional, practices of the institution. This disregard for the staples of their republic manifested once more in 88 BCE, when Lucius Cornelius Sulla, paving the way for Caesar, became the first Roman General to march on Rome with his armies. He did this in defiance of the Senate’s decision to take away his command of the first Mithridatic war — would he have had the temerity for such an action had the Gracchi brothers not carved a similar path?

“that’s exactly what they’re counting on — the dulling of the senses of those who would oppose them, and the galvanisation of those who would support”

Regardless, Sulla followed this road to its end, where he gathered all power of the state and placed it in the hands of one person: himself. He became dictator, and his reign consisted of state-sponsored murders, constitutional rewrites, and the instilling of a climate of political violence and fear. All of this was done in an effort, he claimed, to restore the republic to its former greatness, and when he stepped down after a year in this position and retired from public life, it appeared that he actually meant it. Still, in taking the bull’s horns as he did, he had written clear instructions on how one might do it again, and complete the dismantling of the fragile institution.  

Donald J. Trump has spent his entire political life as a precedent breaking machine — he has refused to release his tax returns, he has denied clear-cut election losses, he has systematically dismantled a near century-old global order, and he has deliberately agitated the basest of sensibilities nestled deep within the hearts of the American electorate. Racism, Xenophobia, Bigotry — all stirred in ways that would make a halfway decent leader sick to their stomach. He is a man who has shown little to no regard for the system from which he sprung forth. It’s impossible to say with certainty what follows from this in the long term, but in the medium term it’s my opinion that the most damaging aspect of this disregard for cultural and political traditions is the speed with which they take place, and the ensuing desensitisation that occurs within a populace hungry for engagement as they deal with one shock after another. After a while, it’s easier to simply tune it out. In fact, I imagine that’s exactly what they’re counting on — the dulling of the senses of those who would oppose them, and the galvanisation of those who would support. It’s at this intersection of exhaustion and rage where populism blooms. 

Populism: the political strategy of leveraging the unhappiness of the common people against the incumbent elite, painting the upper classes as out-of-touch or corrupt, and using them as a target for the people’s ire. A charismatic leader can stoke this feeling to a fever pitch and amass eye-watering followings at breakneck speeds. Standing on the shoulders of the Gracchi brothers, there was no more able a populist tactician than Julius Caesar. He enacted policies that would win him the favour of the urban poor and military veterans, moves that would explicitly align him with the Populares — the political group nominally representing the interests of the common people — against the Optimates, who stood for the incumbent aristocracy. Never mind that his land reform and debt relief packages were largely efforts aimed at squaring his debts to his tired legions, his actions in war and in politics still won him the adulation of the populace. He used this love, his strongman persona, and his sheer military might, to pressure the Senate into declaring him Dictator, just as Sulla had done. In 44 BCE, they made him Dictator Perpetuo — dictator for Life. 

No reasonable person would look at the redistribution of land and grain from an unfair concentration towards the wealthy to something more balanced as an act of evil. Populism, in isolation, is capable of giving a voice to those on the fringes of society, to those left behind; when wielded with safety and care it can provide a powerful counter-balance to the embedded institutions. All too often, however, populism is the go-to utility for charismatic orators with little in their hearts besides their own self-interest. They will use the incumbent elite as a scapegoat; they will reduce complex issues down to simple haves and have-nots; sadly, all too often they will create an other from a cohort of the state’s population they deem to be less than, sub-human. Finally, this charismatic leader will position themselves as the only person who can solve all of these problems—just don’t ask them how. 

The echoes of Julius Caesar’s populist rise to power are loud and clear in modern American politics, in which a corrupt leader has gained a massive following by positioning himself as the antithesis of the corrupt elite and by speaking from both sides of his mouth to the needs of the working class voters. We hear them in the circumvention of established institutions and norms, and when he uses social media to push his destructive agenda to his millions of eager listeners as quickly as he has the thought. We hear it in the deplorable reduction of immigrants to something lower than human — a strategy employed by the Nazi regime in the late 1930s. The angry populace under the sway of this populist spell wear the Stars and Stripes like a cloak around their shoulders, insisting to the world that they do all they do for their country. The truth is not so clear cut — history tells us that those who fall under the sway of populist promises develop a far more powerful loyalty to those who wield it than to the institutions of state themselves. A clear-cut example of this is the Capitol Riot of January 6th, 2021; convinced by Donald J. Trump that the 2020 election was stolen, the rioters found their way inside the seat of the United States of America’s legislative power, causing destruction of property and—much more importantly—multiple deaths. The real danger of populism lies in its potential to circumvent and entirely hollow out pre-existing systems of governance. What to replace them with then, if not the whims of the person who did the hollowing? 

A Roman Triumph, in which conquering Generals were heaped with praise and worship from the Roman people

“The era of compromise has come to and end, and the Trump administration were the ones to finally free it from its misery. ”

They had culture wars in Ancient Rome, too. For years, the people were divided by the soft line between the Optimates and the Populares, and as time marched on towards Octavian’s ascension, this dividing line hardened, and along with it the differences in traditions and class. Public speeches were the orator’s blade: in the Forum Julius Caesar would enthral both the Senate and the masses with populist promises and fiery speeches against the incumbent aristocracy, all while furthering his consolidation of power. Cato—an iconic Stoic of the Roman Republic in his own right—defended the republic’s values with his own orations to the point where history has come to recognise him as the primary force in opposition of Caesar’s rise (he would later choose suicide over living in the world of a victorious Caesar). These sparring contests became the circus itself, and they would regularly draw crowds on the opposing fault lines. See too the dramatic change in sensibilities between one generation and the next; in Rome, youth was frequently seen as a disadvantage, and only in maturity could one find a semblance of respect and dignity. As youthful aristocrats became increasingly attracted to luxury and personal glory, the waning of their dedication to the ideals of the Republic followed—a fact which Caesar was all too eager to take advantage of in his younger years.  As time pressed on, bands of hardmen would rove the streets in the employ of one demagogue or another, stamping out opposition to their points of view, mixing physical with cultural violence.

The United States of America has been a hot bed of culture war for decades—progressives versus conservatives, north versus south, east versus west. In recent years that division has only been hardened; people feel more strongly now about topics such as gender, race, and national identity than at any other point in history. This vitriolic, caustic divide is driven largely by the machine of social media, and political institutions have proven themselves all too eager to take advantage of the manipulative abilities that a connected world provides. The effects of this new calibre of targeted, individual orchestration are plain for all to see—from the echo chambers that grow naturally around our personal social media feeds, to the polarisation of the right and left, to the extinction of the landslide election result. Culture wars allow those who would leverage them to pit one side against another, and in doing so further widen the gulf between those of differing opinions, who might otherwise be able to find some common ground. The era of compromise has come to an end, and the Trump administration was the one to free it from its misery. 

I’m no expert on the fall of the Roman Republic, I’m simply a fan of history with access to sources, and I’m certainly the furthest from an authoritative voice on the politics and culture of The United States of America. What I am, however, is a citizen of the world; one who can’t help but notice the striking similarities between the fall of the republic whose legacy we have inherited, and the democratic institutions of the modern world’s hegemon. On a more positive note, it must be said that the purpose of writing this is not to be fatalistic, nor is it to take satisfaction in the misfortune of others; I write purely in the pursuit of historical awareness, and in the hopes that someone—anyone—might learn something from these near-identical collections of events. 

Finally, it’s worth pointing out a striking difference between the two erstwhile Republics—the United States of America and its political system is on a much stronger footing than that of the Roman Republic, which depended heavily on tradition and unwritten rules. Time will tell whether these checks and balances prove strong enough to prevent The United States from completing its slide into autocracy. Should that happen, however, its people would be wise to recognise that it wasn’t Julius Caesar who became the first Emperor of Rome, but his adopted son, Augustus né Octavianus. With Donald Trump in his late seventies, and proving every day that his mind and body are in total and complete recession, it begs the question: who will be the Augustus to his Caesar, and how much worse will the person waiting in the wings truly be?