A. Wess Mitchell: Great Power Diplomacy: The Skill of Statecraft from Attila the Hun to Henry Kissinger. Chapters 1-3. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2025.
Greatness of power does not and cannot denote illimitable power, which God prudently reserves for Himself. There is never only one great power, although there may be at times a great power greater than others. A great power whose power doesn’t measure up to another, or to some hostile combination of others, needs to think in order to survive, to formulate a “grand strategy”—one commensurate with, or better, superior to, their potential enemies’ political, military, and economic greatness. Or, similarly, for a not-so-great power, a coalition of equals may counterbalance a threatening great power. In implementing that strategy, statesmen will call upon diplomacy, an art that “finds its highest and most enduring expression not as an agent of abstract peace or as a mere handmaiden to military power, but as an instrument of grand strategy that states use to rearrange power in space and time and avoid tests of strength beyond their ability to bear.” Under such circumstances, diplomats can build “coalitions of weaker states” to counter threats from the greatest power of their time and place. Diplomats “manipulat[e] the critical factor of time in competition,” “rearranging power in space and time so that the state voids tests of strength beyond its immediate ability to bear.” Diplomacy’s “most important outcome is the constraint of power.”
Mitchell laments that “diplomacy has become something of a lost art in the modern world,” having given way to the soldier with his weapons, the lawyer plying international law, and the banker practicing financial manipulations. For the United States, this was no real loss at all in the years following the collapse of the Soviet empire, when it was the greatest power in the world, although diplomacy had figured significantly in America’s successful efforts to coexist with, then ruin that empire. In the 1990s, “the role of the Pentagon and Treasury in U.S. foreign policy steadily expanded while that of the State Department shrunk apace”; “peace became the science of administration,” of “getting the right mix of institutions in place, backed by just the right amount of aid, overseen by the proper authorities.” With the quasi-peaceful ‘rise of China,’ that time is gone. The need for diplomacy has returned. Its return can be hindered by the assumption that “human societies can only find true safety—and honor—in a preponderance of military power”; another is the more recent illusion that “humanity is progressing inexorably toward a liberal utopia,” or a utopia of some other sort.
“This book offers a meditation on diplomacy through the prism of strategy, from antiquity to the modern era”—an effort at re-educating those who think about statesmanship, very much including American statesmen themselves, in the lost art. Unlike many diplomats, who often deprecate the importance of the other geopolitical arts in a foolish attempt to draw esteem to their own and to put themselves in charge of their country’s statecraft (the U.S. State Department during the Cold War comes to mind), Mitchell carefully demonstrates the limitations as well as the strengths of diplomacy. He does so with a series of examples drawn from history, beginning with the Spartan King Archidamus II. In mining historical accounts, he insists that “we have to see the world as decision-makers at the time saw it,” to deliberate along with them, in effect training ourselves to think like statesmen.
He also offers some general lessons, across time, regimes, and civilizations. Everywhere and always, diplomacy operates by means of negotiation, which “is to diplomacy what skill in arms is to war.” He cautions that “negotiation is not deception.” Once burned, twice shy: “Because states deal with one another repeatedly over long time horizons, the diplomat must operate in some degree of good faith.” Force and fraud only get you so far. In terms of outcomes, “what the soldier defends with arms, the diplomat defends with treaties,” which exist “to lock in advantages gained in negotiations or war,” as seen, for example in the Peace of Westphalia. Treaties sometimes last a long time, although for the most part that eminent statesman, Charles de Gaulle, was right to compare them to jeunes filles, saying, perhaps with a Gallic shrug, “They last as long as they last.” As treaties accumulate, bureaucracy becomes necessary to maintain state archives and to employ “scribes needed to retain knowledge of foreign places and past agreements,” enabling statesmen to maintain vigilance “in competition with other states.”
Archidamus provides a template for diplomacy. He ruled Sparta from 469 to 427 BC, leading troops into battle on several occasions. In 432 BC, the war party in Sparta—never politically weak, as the Spartan regime was designed for making war—urged an attack on Athens, which had engaged in provocations threatening Spartan interests. Archidamus spoke against war, arguing that “the first step in war is to make sure of your own strength” and at this time, “if we begin the war in haste, we will have many days before we end it, owing to our lack of preparations.” A diplomatic approach is preferable. Mitchell identifies “the heart of Archidamus’ logic” in the speech as “the idea that states can gain an advantage over adversaries by using diplomacy to impose certain kinds of constraints.” First among these are constraints on “one’s own emotions,” which were running too high; “this is not a counsel of cowardice but of prudence.” Another advantage to be gained from diplomacy is timing. “Don’t engage when the enemy wants it; engage when you are ready.” In addition to constraining your own soul, diplomacy can constrain the enemy. “Gathering states to one’s own side or even rendering them neutral denies their support to an adversary…. By building coalitions, states isolate an opponent and thereby reduce his options for profitable aggression while reducing the range of dangers against which their own resources have to be deployed at a given moment.” And finally, “diplomacy attempts to put limits on war itself,” an activity which tends to run out of control, particularly out of the control of civilian rulers. War is a means to achieve political ends, the purpose of the strategy that should govern military action, first and always.
Archidamus’ argument didn’t carry the day. The war party won; Archidamus himself led to attack (the first Peloponnesian War is named after him: the Archidamian War). And, as he predicted, the war lasted many days, indeed years.
Mitchell takes his first two major examples from pre-modern Christendom: fifth-century Byzantium and fifteenth-century Venice. Byzantium’s main rival was Persia. It also had enemies or potential rivals to the south: Arabs, Ethiopians, the “Vandals” of North Africa. A balance of power had been established. This balance was threatened by the rise of the Huns; modern Hungary gets its name from them because that is the territory in which their rule was centered. Beginning in the previous century, they raided, then invaded the Empire’s Balkan provinces. By the 440s, under the command of the military genius Attila, they swept down “the full length of the Balkans,” crushing the Byzantine army at Chersonesus. The balance of power in the region had been overturned, with Byzantium now facing dangers on three fronts, with a two-front war against Persia and the Huns entirely possible. Theodosius the Younger, who had ruled the Empire since 401, needed to call upon his substantial experience to meet the threat.
Byzantium’s regime was no simple tyranny. An imperial council, consisting of civilians and military officers sat “at the top” of the ruling body. Many members of the council were also senators, in which the top official, the magister officorum, ran the imperial bureaucracy. There were also praetorian prefects, the quaestor, a legal advisor, and the city prefect of the capital city, Constantinople. However, these officials had to reckon with the cubiculum, the emperor’s personal staff. Numbering among these was Chrysaphius, a eunuch “who appears to have held a predominant role in the empire’s foreign policy from 443 onward,” having won Theodosius’ favorable attention, partly for his looks (he was “extremely handsome”) and, crucially, for his strategic sense, which was compatible with the emperor’s own approach. For decades, Theodosius had preferred to deal with the Huns “through diplomacy rather than force, whenever possible,” effectively buying them off with the gold for which his capital was so justly famous. He knew how to measure out his treasure because his 15,000-man-strong bureaucracy not only kept records and received foreign envoys but included a substantial and highly competent spy apparatus, its gleanings collected and analyzed back in Constantinople by persons who “would have had access to a large body of didactic Latin and Greek literature on history and war,” including such authors as Polybius, Arrian, and Tacitus.
Chrysaphius’ preference for diplomacy over war grated on “key elements of the Byzantine elite” and from the imperial generals, many of them Germans, descendants of the Goths and Visigoths “who had settled inside the empire over the past few generations.” The pro-war faction also included Pulcheria, the emperor’s sister, and Church leaders, who suspected Chrysaphius of un-Orthodox opinions. All regarded diplomacy as “a form of feckless surrender to the barbarians”; centuries later, that elegant Machiavellian, Edward Gibbon, concurred. They wanted to attack the Huns, not to bribe them.
The problem the victory-lovers confronted was that “Attila’s armies were larger, faster, and more lethal than the forces of earlier enemies that had emerged from the Eurasian interior,” their cavalry capable of outmaneuvering and out-shooting anything the Byzantine forces could muster. They had also mastered the art of seigecraft. Against “an enemy unlike the Eastern Empire or indeed Roman civilization had ever faced,” Theodosius “did not have a viable military option for securing his northern frontier.” And Attila did not lack ambition, intending not only to conquer Byzantium but also Rome and Persia. War was inevitable. But it might be delayed, the time gained used to build up “the empire’s overall position.”
That is what Theodosius and Chrysaphius proceeded to do. In response to each Hun campaign against Byzantium, they negotiated treaties with Persia, giving both empires the chance to strengthen their fortifications against the marauders. For the Persians had their own more immediate Hunnic problem; the Hephthalites or “White Huns,” who may or may not have been physically related to the Western Huns, ruled a substantial empire to the east of Persia, in what are now Uzbekistan and northern Afghanistan. The peace treaty between Byzantium and Persia would hold for more than six decades. This gave the Byzantines the chance not only to hold off the Huns but to pacify them “through exposure to, and assimilation into, Byzantine culture and economy”—as they had done with the Goths and Visigoths. Given their geopolitical encirclement, “the Byzantines needed to domesticate rather than dominate their opponents,” and their principal instrument for so doing was Christianity.
“As pagans went, the Huns were not an easy lot to convert.” They had, after all, enjoyed signal military and political success while following their own religious practices, such as reading entrails and bones. And Byzantium “lacked the martial strength to pursue a religiously tinged military imperialism” in the manner of such future empires as the Ottomans, Spain, and the Muslims. Once again, diplomacy came to the forefront, guided by such prudential measures as “the use of foreign custom and even dress on diplomatic missions and willingness to accept non-Christian oaths at treaty signings.” Another instrument of attraction rather than repulsion was the Roman law, which gave Byzantium a stability barbarians (even the Huns) admired. “The crucial thing that Byzantine law could convey or withhold was legitimacy.” Rulers tend to want that; it makes ruling easier. And the results were visible. Constantinople’s “impregnable walls, broad pavilions, ornate palaces, churches, hippodrome, and baths made a profound impression on steppe visitors,” guided through “a carefully choreographed reception designed to emphasize the power, wealth, and majesty of Byzantine civilization.” Victory-loving, honor-loving foreign military officers also proved susceptible to splendid titles, which could be bestowed in exchange for peaceful behavior. After all, “only Christ’s vice regent, in the form of the Byzantine emperor, could make a cowherd a proper king.” All without forgetting the liberal but carefully designated handing-out of gold, patronage well informed by the empire’s foreign-policy well-read bureaucrats, in possession of information culled by its spies and diplomats. Attila put that gold to good imperial use, distributing it to his tribal chieftains, contenting them with his rule. And if he didn’t, Constantinople could distribute it directly to those chieftains, factionalizing Attila’s subordinates, turning them against one another or even against Attila himself.
“In short, there was much more to Chrysaphius’s policy toward the Huns than the base appeasement alleged by his critics.” He deployed what we would now call ‘soft power’ (“religion, law, customs, gold”) “to keep a threat at bay that could not be handled on the basis of military force.” Chrysaphian dilatoriness rested on “the recognition that time changes things,” that tribes and rulers “come and go.” His chosen envoy, Anatolius, approached Attila with gifts and what a Byzantine observer called “gentle words,” the words Christians learn to use. “The outcome of Anatolius’s mission was an event that did not occur: another Hun invasion of Thrace.” Attila turned his untender attention to the west, toward Rome. After Theodosius died, Pulcheria had Chrysaphius killed, and the next emperor shifted to her make-war strategy, saved from his (and her) folly only because the brilliant Attila had also died. The Eastern Empire lasted far longer than the Western empire, “in part due to diplomacy.” While it “did not fill” the gap between political ends and available military means “on its own,” diplomacy served by “acting as a delivery mechanism for nonmilitary forms of power in the empire’s arsenal.” For its part, the bureaucracy preserved ‘institutional knowledge,’ as we now say, giving an emperor like Theodosius a counterweight to the military. Byzantium “shows what could be accomplished through the intelligent use of nonmilitary means to outwit or outlast martially superior opponents,” an aim “that would have been equally recognizable to Sun Tzu and Clausewitz.” This approach was adopted to Byzantium’s “one-time possession and protégé,” the Republic of Venice, a thousand years later.
When Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453, its close ally was unprepared for war, financially stressed, and threatened not only by the Ottomans in the east but Milan, allied with France, in the west. Even absent such a war, the Ottoman conquest threatened Venice, a commercial republic, with interference with its trade routes in the eastern Mediterranean. Confronting such prospects, the Venetian Senate authorized the diplomat Bartolomeo Marcello to give the Sultan twelve hundred ducats and assure him that Venice intended to abide by the peace treaty that the sultan’s father had signed. If the peace were confirmed, Venice respectfully requested the return of cargo ships seized in the war with Byzantium and “the return of such Venetian citizens as had not yet been decapitated.” In case the peace was not confirmed, the senators also moved to reinforce the Venetian colonies closest to Turkey. As for Milan, with which Venice had fought a series of wars beginning three decades earlier, such land wars were costly because Venice had no large army of its own and needed to pay mercenaries to prosecute them.
The Senate was part of a set of Venetian ruling institutions that included the doge, essentially an elected constitutional monarch, the Council of Ten, “which effectively acted as the executive branch,” the Council of Forty, “which functioned as a kind of high court, and the Great Council, “which acted as a legislature.” This was not a democratic but an aristocratic republic; the officers came from “a tightknit circle of patrician families.” As a commercial republic, it had long maintained a banking network in foreign countries, eventually accompanied by consuls “to look after its economic interests.” The consuls knew the cities and countries to which they were assigned and regularly sent reports to the government, each a “full accounting of a foreign power’s political, geographical, and historical topography.” Such information was critically important not only for trade but also for political and military reasons, as Venice sat in what would soon become the Italy of Machiavelli, where “the idea of Christian universalism” had faded and diplomacy “was unabashedly secular in its aims,” the Italy that was a cockpit of rival city-states. However, diplomacy as practiced there was not entirely Machiavellian. As the contemporary Venetian diplomat Ermalao Barbaro wrote, an ambassador should “do, say, advise and think whatever may best serve the preservation and aggrandizement of his own state” while “win[ning] and preserv[ing] the friendship of princes.” Reputation mattered, and could not be upheld long-term by mere flattery and deception.
The Ottomans signed the proffered treaty. Sultan Mehmed II also needed time—in his circumstance, time to “digest his most recent victim.” The Ottoman Empire also derived economic benefit by allowing the Venetians to continue carrying goods between the West and the East, at least until it had built up its naval and commercial fleet so that it no longer needed an intermediary. But the main diplomatic success was the negotiated end of the war with Milan.
The Venetian envoy who negotiated that treaty was an Augustinian prior from Padua, Simone de Camerino. The Peace of Lodi was “a diplomatic masterstroke for Venice.” Not only did it end the war, guaranteeing Venetian rule over lands the republic had acquired, but it led to a treaty among the other major Italian city-states establishing “a twenty-five-year truce during which they pledged to respect the newly agreed borders, set limits on the size of their armies, eschew bilateral alliances, and come to one another’s if attacked.” The Italian League enabled Venice to concentrate its attention on the Ottoman threat by obviating the need to pay for a large land army, thereby freeing monies for the fleet it would need to protect itself against the Ottomans. With its West-East commerce guaranteed for now, Venice could recover economically, while it watched, in the subsequent ten years, as the Ottomans under Mehmed seized non-Venetian islands in the Aegean, Athens and other Greek city-states, Wallachia, Bosnia, and the northern and southern shores of the Black Sea. The emperor carefully avoided attacking the Venetian colonies, but it was impossible to suppose that they were not future targets. “Behind the facade of trade treaties, Venetian diplomats were waging a quiet but determined effort across the Mediterranean and Anatolia to undermine Mehmed’s power, gain influence over his decisions, and build alliances for the coming conflict.”
The republic’s ever-increasing revenues lent substance to the effort. Now “at its apogee as the financial powerhouse of the Mediterranean,” its currency “served as an international currency,” preferred to that of the Ottomans, who could not yet “produce coinage of the same quality.” Venice’s bribes were actually worth something. Not only did bribery recruit allies, it also assisted in recruiting enemies to harass the sultan on the far side of his empire and it paid for the fourteen assassination attempts against Mehmed plotted in the years 1456-1479. Venice’s most important ally became Uzun Hasan, who led a Turkoman confederation called the White Sheep, which spanned “a wide swath of territories across Armenia, eastern Anatolia, and western Iran.” The Venetians also approached Balkan Christian communities, restive under the Islamic yoke. All of these entities shared a common enemy in the Ottomans. All of them provided what Venice had always lacked and the Ottomans had in abundance: land troops.
Unfortunately for Venice, it could not mobilize the Italian League against the Ottomans, as its members, while maintaining peace with Venice, resented its commercial dominance, some continuing allied with France or with the German emperors who controlled some parts of Italy. And when the pope urged a crusade, an effort that might have united the Italians against the Ottomans, Venice demurred, judging such a venture too dangerous to undertake.
In 1460, the Ottomans were the ones to attack. The Venetians pulled together a set of non-Italian allies consisting of Hungary, Albania, and the White Sheep. They lost, after a fifteen-year fight that marked “the beginning of the end of Venice as a great power.” The Peace of Lodi kept Venice safe from Italian rivals, but in 1494 France conquered the once-powerful city-state. That is, Venetian diplomacy preserved its independence for forty years after its protector, Byzantium, had fallen to the Turks, and it did in fact avoid conquest by a Muslim power.
Mitchell thus identifies the strengths and limitations of Venetian diplomacy. Diplomacy successfully temporized. But it “could only do so much to mitigate her material deficiencies; for all its cunning, the republic remained a small cluster of islands off the Po Delta, backed by a handful of holdings on the Italian mainland, pitted against an Ottoman land and sea empire that stretched from the Danube to the Euphrates.” To survive, it would have needed to “unit[e] Renaissance Christendom” against the Turks, and that wasn’t happening. Further, to do so would have been equally fatal to its status as a great power, for in bringing together the Christian powers against the Turks, Venice would ruin its commerce with the Ottomans, “on which her great-power status depended.” The “middle position between Christendom and the Turks” made Venice suspect to all. “In retrospect, it is obvious that a small maritime city-state with limited resources would eventually be eclipsed by the large, centralizing empires coalescing on either side of it.” Venice lacked what today’s writers call “strategic depth,” and the alliances its diplomats did cobble together as a substitute for such depth could hold only so long.
In Venice, Mitchell concludes, “we see diplomacy begin to take on something like a modern form, as an enterprise by the state for the state, carried out by accredited professionals on a standing basis.” In modernity, diplomacy has tended to commerce and to information gathering, thereby strengthening the modern state. Venetian diplomatic techniques, soon imitated by its neighbors, “ultimately spread to become the template in Europe and across the world, down to the present day.” At the same time, “Venetian diplomacy ultimately demonstrated beyond any doubt the limits of what can be achieved in international politics without the backing of adequate military power.” At least to some extent, Machiavelli is right to prefer being feared to being loved, although Mitchell also notes that Venice wasn’t much loved, either. In his next pair of chapters, France and Austria, he considers the diplomacy of two thoroughly modern, centralized states that wielded considerable military power.

Recent Comments