A beautiful post I wish I had written

Trump Isn’t Caligula, He’s Commodus

Martin Longman

I occasionally see people compare Donald Trump to the 1st-Century Roman Emperor, Caligula, but I think that’s mainly because Caligula is probably the most famous of the many badly flawed Roman Emperors. If Caligula is not the most famous, then it’s Nero, who allegedly fiddled while Rome burned. But I’ve seen Trump compared to Nero, too.

A better comparison to Trump is the 2nd-century emperor, Commodus, who ruled from 177 CE until he was strangled by his personal trainer on New Year’s Eve in 192 CE. The two have a shocking amount in common.

Commodus really should have turned out better, considering that his father was Marcus Aurelius, a Stoic philosopher and generally considered both in his own time and in ours as one of the best of Rome’s emperors. Aurelius named Commodus, then only 15 years old, as his co-emperor in 177 CE and the son took sole possession of power in 180 when his father died.

At first, he had little interest in matters of state and relied on more experienced hands to tend to many administrative duties. But then something traumatic happened. In 182 CE, his older sister Lucilla led an assassination plot against him.

She recruited a young senator named Claudius Pompeianus Quintianus for the job. Knowing that Commodus would be visiting the Colosseum to see the games, Quintianus lay in wait inside a dark entrance tunnel the emperor and his entourage used to enter and exit the games without interacting with the public. Leaping out armed with a sword or dagger, he announced, “See! This is what the Senate sends you!” But the emperor’s bodyguards tackled and disarmed him before he could strike.

Under questioning, Quintianus quickly revealed the plot, including Lucilla’s role, and then was just as swiftly executed. Commodus’s response to nearly losing his life was immediate and brutal, but also transformative and long-lasting.

He banished Lucilla to the island of Capri, but soon after sent a centurion to kill her. Convinced that a Deep State elite cabal was against him, he had dozens of prominent senators, military commanders, and magistrates summarily executed without formal trials.

Thereafter, his behavior became increasingly erratic.

Believing that the Gods must have protected him from death and therefore favored him, he declared himself the reincarnation of Hercules, began wearing a lion skin and carrying a wooden club, and erected massive marble statues of himself throughout the empire as a god.

He renamed the twelve months of the year after his own titles, renamed the Roman Senate the “Commodian Fortunate Senate,” renamed the military legions the “Commodian Legions,” and officially renamed Rome itself “Colonia Commodiana.”

If this were not enough, he took on the role of a gladiator. He competed in the Colosseum, charging the state astronomical fees for every appearance. Sometimes he would slaughter exotic animals from a safe and elevated platform. Sometimes he would fight gladiators who were armed only with wooden or dulled weapons.

The historian Cassius Dio, an eyewitness, recorded that the Senate was forced to attend and chant divine praises to Commodus. On one occasion, the emperor decapitated an ostrich, walked over to the senatorial seating area and held up the bleeding head in one hand and his sword in the other, signaling that he could sever their heads just as easily.

The breaking point came on New Year’s Eve, 192 CE, when he told his mistress Marcia that he intended to do something a little different at the traditional New Year’s Day parade.

The 3rd-century historian Herodian reported that Commodus told Marcia that he would break custom and not march out of the imperial palace in purple robes to join the Senate and other officials for the procession. Instead, he intended to sleep in the gladiatorial barracks and lead the parade directly from the Colosseum. He would dress as a gladiator and be surrounded by gladiators.

Marcia was appalled. She begged him to reconsider. She argued that he’d disgrace himself by associating in this way with slaves. But this only angered Commodus. He was further enraged when he discovered that his Praetorian Prefect and his chamberlain agreed with Marcia.

He then retreated to his bedroom and wrote down a hit list on a tablet. At the top of the list were Marcia, the Prefect and the chamberlain. Afterwards, he took a bath, leaving the tablet on his bed. A servant inadvertently handed the tablet to Marcia, and she realized that she was marked for death.

The three of them then came up with a quick plan. Marcia gave Commodus a cup of wine heavily spiked with poison, which he drank. But he quickly began vomiting and they worried that he would purge the poison before it could kill him. So, they went to a backup plan. They bribed Commodus’s personal trainer to strangle him, which he did.

Now, consider the case of Trump. He came to power much less interested in the workings of government than the trappings of power, and initially left most of the governing work to more experienced hands. But then a series of existential threats transformed him. He faced the Mueller investigation and two impeachment trials, convincing him that an elite Deep State cabal was out to get him. Then, once out of office, he faced a barrage of legal indictments from this cabal that threatened to land him in prison for the rest of life. Finally, while running for office again, he not only narrowly survived an assassination attempt but was reelected.

In combination, these threats and his ability to survive them convinced him of two things. First, he must smash the Deep State and exact harsh punishment on his enemies, and second that God must favor him or he would have been killed by his would-be assassin.

Since he could not trust experienced hands, he would govern through his own gut and with the assistance of sycophants. Since God favored him, he would erect monuments to himself, name things after himself, cover everything in gold, and force the people to view him as a living god.

Rather than playing the role of a dignified statesman to impress elites he could focus on entertaining and impressing the masses or plebians by hosting pro-wrestling matches and auto races, much like Commodus took on the role of a gladiator.

But this doesn’t alleviate his paranoia or his desire to hold absolute power over his enemies. He moves to purge his opposition within the military and Justice Department, and to seed loyalists throughout the civil service. He expects the judiciary to bend to his will, and he treats the Senate as his servants. He looks to rig the electoral system and openly muses about illegally running for a third term.

Whether in ancient Rome or a modern America, the dynamic here is identical. A leader, drunk with power, paranoia, a thirst for vengeance and a belief that he is favored by the Gods, dissolves into megalomania and foregoes the responsibility of governance in favor of self-aggrandizement and the pursuit of total control.

What so far distinguishes Trump from Commodus is that when he accuses someone of treason they are not executed without trial. When he seeks to rig elections or seek a third term, it doesn’t happen without a fight. He does not have the power of a Roman Emperor, and so he is still constrained. But this is not by his choice. Everything about him suggests he seeks the power of Commodus so that he can act like Commodus. There’s nothing about his character or his current mental health that suggests that he’d be any more restrained or responsible if given that power.

So, yes, he is not a modern-day Caligula. He is a modern-day Commodus.

Thank you, Mr. Longman,

Rodger Malcolm Mitchell