by David D. Horowitz.
An ancient Roman emperor typically fancied himself divine and expected to be declared an actual god (“divus”) upon his death. As a god, or proto-god, an emperor could enjoy fantastic luxury—access to a harem of three hundred beautiful women and some young boys, if that was his preferred taste; feasts featuring rare delicacies from around the empire, such as ostrich meat and flamingo tongues; triumphal marches and finely decorated arches in his honor; and wealth to fund construction of vast urban palaces and pastoral retreats. Many emperors insisted they be addressed via hyperbolic honorifics (e.g., “master and god”), and they were obliged. And being divine an emperor was expected to deliver decisive military victories and their rich bounty.
But if he failed to produce such victories, and if jealous relatives, aristocratic rivals, members of the Praetorian guard, and popular generals felt misused or undervalued, the emperor might have to fight rebellious opposition and, indeed, might be murdered. Terms commonly accepted by contemporary historians of Ancient Rome include “the year of four emperors” (69 A.D.) and “the year of six emperors” (238 A.D.). Such terms merely hint at the bloody battles fought for the prestigious imperial title. For imperial Rome never established a peaceable, legally binding protocol of succession. The first emperor, Augustus, might temper potential resentment by using the term “princeps” to imply partnering guidance rather than dominance, and some emperors—particularly the five emperors who ruled from 96 to 180 A.D—were capable, learned, and comparatively humane. But many others—Caligula, Commodus, Caracalla, and Decius come to mind—engaged in some of history’s most murderous purges and persecutions. Such was their power. And they could not be voted from office.
Rome’s god-emperors’ hubris yielded horrific errors of judgment. Many mistook luck for divine sanction and power for excellence. And these traits are not limited to Ancient Rome. Many a leader has fancied himself or herself a divinity with the prerogative to have others harassed, defamed, or killed at the snap of a finger.
So, contrarian as I sometimes am, I refuse to parrot currently fashionable denunciations of the United States’ founders and first constitutionalists. Yes, they could be fiercely contentious with each other. And, yes, their slave-owning deserves to be condemned, and the full range of their motivations—including desire for inordinate personal wealth—should be taught and publicized. But so should their assertion that rulers must respect citizens’ basic rights. Separation of church and state; separation of powers; a system of checks and balances; the rule of law, not men; freedom of the press: we take these principles for granted, as if every country has and abides by them. President Trump, and his repulsive suggestion that he might not yield power even if he loses the 2020 presidential election, inadvertently reminds us to cherish the founders’ principles more than ever. Yes, America’s founders were seriously flawed—but at least they knew they were flawed and didn’t pretend to be gods. They sought to create a system in which we wouldn’t have a year of six emperors, but, rather, peaceable elections to resolve disputes about succession.
This past year I have seen and heard a steady stream of commentary from protesters and cultural figures reductively denouncing the United States’ founders as racists, murderers, and thieves. The founders were flawed human beings, yes, and pious white-washings of our country’s history should be junked. But we should concurrently appreciate how revolutionary and necessary and still-relevant many of our founders’ principles still are. For emperor-wannabe and god-aspirant Donald Trump is largely held in check by the United States constitution. He might fancy himself the ultimate patriot, but this country’s founders rejected Trump’s sort of arrogance and delusion.
America’s founders were not gods—and they knew it.