Polybius: The Histories. Robin Waterfield translation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

 

With Book III, the central book of this pentad, Polybius begins his history proper—his narrative and political analysis of the course of events in and around the Mediterranean between 220 and 167 BC, when Rome acquired empire over “the known world.” By 220, Rome had defeated Carthage in the struggle over Sicily, acquiring Sardinia too while Carthage fought its civil war against barbarian mercenaries. Seemingly poised to dominate the western Mediterranean at least, the Romans didn’t anticipate the brilliance of Carthage’s great general, Hannibal, who led his forces into Italy, “end[ing] Roman supremacy in Italy” for a time and bringing “the Romans to the point where they fearfully expected to lose their very lives and the soil of their homeland” (III.ii). That they survived this crisis and eventually went on to conquer and rule their rivals bespeaks (in Polybius’ judgment) “the peculiar virtues of their regime” (III.ii).

It is the political dimension of this course of events that Polybius insists we appreciate. “A final assessment of the winners and losers cannot depend merely on the outcome of their struggles,” the results of military actions. “For apparently overwhelming success often proves utterly disastrous, if people fail to make proper use of it, and it is not uncommon for devastating catastrophes, if accepted with fortitude, to turn out to people’s advantage” (III.iv). Therefore, “my account of events would be incomplete if I failed to go on to describe, first, the attitude of the winners after their victory and how they ruled the world; second, how acceptable others found their rule and what they thought of the rulers; and, third, the aims and ambitions of all concerned, which governed their private lives and guided their policy-making” (III.iv). Such considerations had immediate and intense interest for Polybius and his native polis, Megalopolis, in Arcadia. His father had advocated a policy of Achaean independence from Rome; the city resisted Roman rule until 147. Although he had left Megalopolis for Rome when he saw the pro-Roman faction gaining ascendency, Polybius continued to uphold an Aristotelian appreciation for political life understood as reciprocal rule, intending to leave open the question of empire even as the Roman empire prevailed. “Such an account” as this “will enable the present generation to see whether Roman dominion is something they should seek out or shun, and will show future generations whether they should praise and admire the Roman empire, or find it abhorrent” (III.iv). 

All of this for good, Aristotelian reasons: “Educationally speaking, this will prove to be the most important aspect of my work, now and in the future. For neither rulers nor those who express opinion about them should think of victory and overall dominion as the goal of military action. It makes as little sense for a man to fight others just to crush them as it does for a man to take to the open sea just to cross it. No one gains expertise either, or learns a skill, just in order to master it; every action is only ever done for the sake of the future pleasure or good or profit it will bring the agent. So my work will be complete when it has clarified how all the various peoples felt from the time when the Romans’ victories had brought them worldwide dominion, up to the disturbed and troubled period that came afterwards.” (III.iv).

But first, the Hannibalic wars. Again following Aristotle, Polybius distinguishes between events that started the wars (the ‘efficient causes’ or archē, in Aristotelian vocabulary) and the ‘final’ or teleological causes: “I take it that the starting point of anything consists of the first application in the real world of a course of action that has already been decided upon, while the cause is what first influences one’s judgments and decisions, or, in other words, what first influences one’s idea, feelings, reasoning about the matter, and all one’s decision-making and deliberative faculties” (III.vi). The final or underlying cause of the Hannibalic wars “was surely the anger of Hamilcar Barca, the father of Hannibal,” whose “spirit remained unbowed after the Sicilian War” and therefore “kept his forces…in a state of unimpaired readiness to achieve his objectives,” watching for “a chance to attack” (III.ix). He never saw that chance but nonetheless “devoted himself to subduing Iberia, with the intention of using it as a springboard for war against Rome” (III.x). He transmitted his anger (as a sort of psychic inheritance) to his son, Hannibal, who “led him by the right hand up to the altar” at a Carthaginian military outpost in Iberia, “told him to place his hand on the [sacrificial] victim and swear unremitting hatred for the Romans” (III.xi). Hannibal thus became a “lifelong, fanatical” enemy of Rome, driven by familial and religious piety (III.xii). 

Polybius draws the lesson: “When old enemies are patched up or new friendships formed, statesmen need to make it their primary concern to discover the motives of the people involved. They need to know when people come to terms because circumstances leave them no choice, and when they do so because their spirits have been broken. They should regard the first lot as biding their time and should deal cautiously with them, but they may trust the latter, who have submitted to them, as true friends, and need not hesitate before summoning their help under any circumstances” (III.xii). Hannibal unquestionably numbered among those who bide their time, “gripped by irrational and uncontrollable anger” toward Rome (III.xv); after waiting his chance, he seized on a pretext to attack. For their part, the Romans foresaw “a major, prolonged war with Carthage”—but not then (III.xvi). Supposing they had more time, they had moved to secure their eastern flank in Illyria as a buffer against the “flourishing” Macedonian dynasty”; Hannibal “pre-empted them,” besieging and capturing the city of Saguntum, a Roman stronghold in northeastern Iberia that would have impeded his movement towards the Alps (III.xvi). “This is why the war took place all over Italy, even close to Rome itself, rather than in Iberia” (III.xvi). Subsequent Roman protests and treaties had no effect on Hannibal’s plans.

The lesson for readers: “If there is anyone who is sure that he can cope entirely on his own with every eventuality, I might agree that for him knowledge of the past is unnecessary. It would still be a good thing for such a person, but not necessary. But no mortal man is so rash as to make such a claim. Whether he is acting as a private individual or as a public official, even if things are currently going well, no one of any sense that takes that as a reliable harbinger of what will happen in the future. And so knowledge of the past is, in my opinion, necessary as well as good.” (III.xxxi). And not only bits and pieces of the past. The Second Punic War arose out of a series of events that occurred not only in Rome, Carthage, and Iberia but in Macedon and Greece. A ‘history of Rome’ or a ‘history of Carthage’ will not suffice. “I would say that the difference between partial accounts and my history is as great as the difference between hearing and understanding” (III.xxxii). “In our times…almost everything can be reached by sea or by land”; more, “men who are capable of being effective in the world have been freed of the obligation to devote themselves to warfare and statesmanship, and therefore have the perfect opportunity to investigate and study these matters”(III.lix); what they have lost in experience they can grasp by study, so that they will at least understand warcraft and statecraft, view them with a knowledgeable eye, not give themselves over to fantasies or, as much later generations would say, ideology. 

Hannibal planned meticulously for his invasion. He understood that he could only get at the Romans in Italy with the cooperation of the Italian Celtic chieftains who controlled the Alps and the lands immediately to the south of them. “He made sure that he was fully informed about the fertility of the land below the Alps and in the Po plain, the size of the population there, the fearlessness of the men in battle, and most importantly, the hatred they bore the Romans,” with whom they had clashed many times (III.xxxiv). He sent “carefully crafted messages” to the chieftains, making “extravagant promises” of future benefits in exchange for present assistance (III.xxxiv). (As for the Celts on the near side of the mountains, he would simply smash through them.) In 218 BC he ordered his troops to move, first across the Pyrenees, then the Alps; the Roman general who landed in Iberia to intercept him arrived after he’d left.

Polybius takes care to say that writers “who have written about Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps” in order “to astound their readers with the extraordinary nature of the mountains” merely “perpetuate falsehoods” and “contradict themselves” (III.xlvii). The Alps, he assures us, are eminently ‘crossable,’ as the Celts had demonstrated on several occasions; the mountains are in fact “heavily populated,” and Hannibal’s march was “highly practical,” so long as the Celts who lived there had no objection to his plans (III.xlvii) or, in some cases, were overawed by the 50,000 foot soldiers, 9,000 Numidian cavalrymen, and the never-before-seen elephants he brought with him. One Celtic tribe nonetheless surprised him with an attack, causing some losses, but even this was only a raid, not part of any sustained and coordinated resistance. The march from his Iberian headquarters to Italy took five months, the actual Alpine crossing fifteen days. His worst enemy was the winter; by the time he reached the Po valley he had lost nearly half of his men, and “the constant suffering had reduced all the survivors to a state in which they resembled wild beasts” (III.lx). After they had rested sufficiently, Hannibal took advantage of their hardships by telling them that it was now a matter of winning or dying; the Roman general Scipio’s troops were advancing, having returned to Italy from Iberia, so the only thing to do was to meet them head on. “The reward for the victors, however, would not be mere horses and cloaks,” the usual spoils of war, “but the riches of Rome, with which they would make themselves the wealthiest men in the world” (III.lxiii). “None of them, he went on, was so foolish or stupid as to believe that he would make it home if he turned to flight” (III.lxiii). By contrast, Scipio’s speech was a rather complacent account of the glories of Rome and of the supposed weakness of the Carthaginian invaders.

Just as he had planned the invasion itself with care and prudence, so Hannibal planned his battles. “Anyone who claims that any aspect of generalship is more important than knowing the character and temperament of the enemy commander certainly does not know what he is talking about,” and Hannibal studied the flaws of the enemy generals (III.lxxx). More often than not, his troops mauled the Romans, who were also betrayed by their remaining Celtic allies. Still, “the Romans are at their most formidable, as a state or as individuals, when they are genuinely threatened” (III.lxxv); knowing this, Hannibal advanced not so much via head-to-head battles but by ambushes and other stratagems designed to induce unforced errors by the defenders. But although the Roman generals were thrown into confusion and defeat, the Roman Senate “stayed suitably calm as they debated the future,” even as the Roman people failed to react “with moderation and restraint” (III.lxxxv). Even as its military leaders faltered, the regime itself held fast. They knew that Rome retained two “strengths”: “an inexhaustible supply of provisions and plenty of men,” neither of which the Carthaginian forces commanded (III.xc). And although they no longer had substantial land forces in Iberia, the Romans took the precaution of interrupting Hannibal’s supply lines and tying down the Carthaginian troops remaining in Iberia by ordering naval attacks along the coast. This resulted in some of the cities and towns there turning against the Carthaginians, even as the Carthaginians had succeeded in turning many of the Celts against Rome.

And so Hannibal decided to force the issue. At the town of Cannae, he was outnumbered by the Romans. He won that justly celebrated battle because his cavalry forces outmaneuvered the Roman foot soldiers—a lesson taken by military tacticians ever since, down to the twentieth century, when horse cavalry were replaced by the mechanized cavalry of tanks. [1] As Polybius writes, “the battle taught later generations that in wartime it is better to have half as many infantry as the enemy, and overwhelming cavalry superiority, than to have exactly the same numbers as the enemy in all respects” (III.cxviii).

“Nevertheless, the Senate continued to do their best; they tried to alleviate the general gloom, they secured the city, and they did not let fear get the better of them as they debated the crisis. And subsequent events showed that they were right…. Although their military supremacy had passed into other hands, the peculiar virtues of their constitution and their sound deliberation not only enabled them to regain dominion over Italy and then to beat the Carthaginians, but within a few years they had made themselves masters of the entire known world.” (III.cxviii).

Keeping with his own plan of giving his readers a comprehensive understanding of the Mediterranean as a geopolitical whole, Polybius doesn’t move immediately to a discussion of the Roman regime, turning away from Italy and Iberia altogether and discussing events in the east. The year 220 makes sense as a beginning point of the main narrative of his history because by then “Fortune” had effected “the complete renewal of the known world.” New rulers were poised to make their mark: Philip V in Macedon; Antiochus III in Syria; Ariarthes IV in Cappadocia; Ptolemy IV in Egypt; Lycurgus in Sparta. Additionally, Achaeus “had both the authority and the resources of a king in Asia Minor” and Hannibal now led Carthaginian troops in Italy. With these accessions came new wars: the Hannibalic War, the war for rule over Coele Syria between Antiochus and Ptolemy; and the war between the Achaean-Macedonian alliance and the Aetolian-Spartan alliance.

Polybius begins with Greece. He holds the Aetolians responsible for that war. “Their habitual bluster is expensive to maintain, and because they are completely ruled by it, they always live like rapacious beasts, and view the whole world as a hostile, uncongenial place” (IV.3). Now that “the boy-king Philip V” had inherited the Macedonian throne, they believed they saw their chance “to interfere in Peloponnesian affairs” (IV.3). They sent Dorimachus of Trichonium, a young man “who shared the aggression and rapaciousness that characterize Aetolians,” to an area bordering on Messene, an ally of the Aetolian League (IV.4). That didn’t stop Dorimachus from allowing his men to plunder the Messenians, to whom he resentfully agreed to pay restitution, while scheming to foment a war to avenge this perceived humiliation.

This alarmed and infuriated the Achaeans, who sent their best general, Aratus to assist the Messenians. This “extraordinary man” was “perfectly suited for a career as a statesman: he was a good speaker and a clear thinker, and had the ability to keep his ideas to himself; his calmness in the face of political disputes, and his ability to retain friends and gain allies, were unrivalled; he was also outstandingly good at devising ways of getting at his enemies by personal action, stealth, or cunning, and he had the patience and boldness to see these plans through to completion” (IV.viii). As a military commander his one weakness was battle in open countryside; in such circumstances he was uncharacteristically “slow-witted, hesitant, and apparently reluctant to face danger” (IV.viii). Polybius muses, “the fact is that people’s minds vary as much as their bodies”; “the same man may be talented at certain activities and backward at others,” exhibiting “extremes of intelligence and stupidity, or of daring and timidity” (IV.viii). What is true of individuals is also true of peoples. The Cretans, “unbeatable at ambushes, raids, deceiving the enemy, night attacks, and every kind of small-scale operation requiring cunning,” prove “cowardly and timid” in “a formal, face-to-face, mass assault,” whereas the Achaeans and Macedonians are usually (with the exception of Aratus) just the opposite (IV.viii). 

Outmaneuvered by the Aetolians, Aratus lost his first battle against them and the ‘Social War’ was on. Facing a hostile assembly at home, Aratus prudently “asked to be forgiven for any mistakes he had made during the battle” while reminding the Achaeans of his many previous accomplishments on their behalf. “His words changed the mood of the assembly so rapidly and decisively that those of his political enemies who had attacked him completely fell from favor and from then on the Achaeans adopted Aratus’ policies in everything” (IV.xii). On his recommendation, they appealed to Philip of Macedon, the Messenians, and the Spartans for troops. Unsurprised by Aetolian aggression—it “was, after all, normal Aetolian behavior”—Philip for the time did nothing; “unremitting wrongdoing is more likely to be pardoned than occasional, abnormal iniquity” (IV.xvi). The Spartans responded by secretly allying themselves with the Aetolians. They promised support to the Achaeans, then sent many fewer men than promised.

With its numerous city-states, Greece offers Polybius excellent opportunities for the study of ‘comparative politics.’ He doesn’t neglect them. Why, for example, are the Arcadian people generally so good and the Cynaetheans—ruling a city in the region, ethnically identical to their neighbors—the “most brutal and lawless people in Greece at that time,” even worse than the Aetolians? “The Arcadian people as a whole have a reputation throughout the Greek world for moral virtue. They are polite and friendly by disposition and upbringing, and above all they revere the gods. The savagery of the Cynaetheans is therefore puzzling.” (IV.xx). Polybius suggests that they were missing a crucial regime element, “the first and only Arcadians to abandon an excellent practice that had been instituted by their forebears, a practice which took into consideration the natural characteristics of the people there”: the practice of music, which the Arcadians had made the “constant companion” of children and young men, up to the age of thirty (IV.xx). The young sing “the traditional songs and paeans with which each community hymns its local heroes and gods”; “every year they put on a keenly contested dance competition in their theaters” and throughout the year they sing at home parties (IV.xx). “The men of old who introduced these practices had a very good reason for doing so” (IV.xxi). Far from considering music “a superfluous luxury,” they understood that most Arcadians were peasants; “life is a hard grind for them” (IV.xi). In addition, the climate of Arcadia is cold and dank; since “all over the world people inevitably come to resemble the prevailing climatic conditions,” Arcadians “tend towards dourness”—the Scotsmen of Greek antiquity (IV.xxi). “It was because they wanted to soften and temper the inflexibility and insensitivity of the Arcadian character that they introduced al these practices, and for the same reason they also instituted the custom, for both men and women, of shared public meetings and sacrificial festivals, of which there are very many in Arcadia, and also festivals at which girls and boys dance together. In short, the sole purpose for which they were striving was to introduce practices that tamed and mitigated Arcadian obduracy.” (IV.xxi).

The Cynaetheans, however, were having none of it. They “utterly neglected these practices, despite the fact that, because their climate and landscape are by far the most severe in Arcadia, they had more need of this kind of help than anyone else” (IV.xxi). As a consequence, “there is no Greek city anywhere in the world where worse and more constant crimes have been committed” (IV.xxi). That great student of the interplay between climate, political regimes, and character, Montesquieu, knew his Polybius.

Polybius also considers the Spartan regime, which had just changed from their traditional monarchy, with “unquestioning obedience” to kings as the way of life, to democracy (IV.xxii). They weren’t ready for self-government, however. “Now that they had no kings, no one wanted anyone else to have more political power than himself, and the in-fighting began” (IV.xxii); as a much later political observer put it, faction is to republics as fire is to air. When one of the ephors made a speech advocating continued alliance with the Macedonians, who had liberated them from monarchy, he was assassinated by his rivals, unreconstructed monarchists who had made alliance with some military officers. With Sparta now surreptitiously on their side, the Aetolians prepared for war against the Achaean League and its new ally, Philip of Macedon, who rightly felt betrayed by the ruling faction in Sparta—the city his father had helped to liberate. Polybius draws the lesson, with respect to the Spartans and the Aetolian League with whom they allied themselves: “There is never any difference between crimes committed against individuals and political crimes, except that the latter involve more and larger consequences. Small-scale swindlers and thieves fail above all because they do not treat one another fairly, or, in general, because they cheat one another, and this is exactly what the Aetolians had done.” (IV.xxix). After another coup in 219, “the Spartans, who had enjoyed the finest regime in Greece ever since the legislation of Lycurgus, and who had been the most powerful military presence in Greece until the battle of Leuctra, went into decline when Fortune changed and turned against them. Their regime gradually deteriorated, and in the end no polis was more plagued by trouble and strife, no polis more racked by land reforms and political banishments”; “they came to experience a harsher form of servitude than anyone else in Greece”—all owing to the “thorough subversion of the ancestral regime,” beginning with the tyranny of Cleomenes. (IV.lxxxi).

The many Greek city-states also offers a field for considering geopolitics. The Messenians live between the more powerful Arcadians and Spartans. Because the Spartans “have always been their implacable enemies” they have allied themselves with the genial, virtuous Arcadians (IV.xxxii). “Whenever the Spartans were distracted by internal or external warfare, the Messenians were all right,” but “whenever the Spartans had time on their hands and nothing better to do, they fell back on injuring the Messenians” (IV.xxxii). Polybius recommends that the Messenians federate with the equally beleaguered Megalopolitans, which would give each polis the strength to resist military incursions.

After several more assassinations of democrats, the Spartan monarchists restored their preferred regime and made open alliance with the Aetolians. The Social War began. Macedon’s Philip (only seventeen years old when the war began) faced a geopolitical complication. At the same time the Greeks were preparing for war to his south, to his northeast the Rhodians attacked Byzantium, the gateway to the Black Sea, where Greeks traded for livestock, slaves, and luxury items. Thus “the people of Byzantium are the benefactors of all of us in common,” protecting Greek shipping from ever-encroaching barbarian chieftains (especially the Thracians) and properly expecting united Greek assistance “whenever the barbarian menace becomes critical,” as indeed it did when the equally barbaric Gauls arrived on the scene (IV.xxxviii). But the Greeks, preoccupied with their own struggles, ignored their pleas for help; desperate for revenues need to fund their resistance to the barbarians, the Byzantines put a tax on Black Sea shipping. “the affronted traders unanimously turned for help to the Rhodians, who were considered to be pre-eminent at sea” (IV.xlvii). 

Both sides brought in allies. The Rhodians successfully appealed to Prusias I, king of Bithynia, who coveted Byzantine territory in Asia Minor. The Byzantines sent embassies to Attalus I, king of Pergamon, a Greek polis in Asia Minor, and to Achaeus, the military commander of Asia Minor, who had been appointed by the Greek Seleucid emperor, Antiochus III. Intimidated by the Byzantine alliance system, the Rhodians and Bithynians quickly made peace with Byzantium, so long as the Byzantines agreed not to tax Black Sea shipping. This freed Philip to turn his full attention to the south, to the Aetolians.

Reaching Olympia, he sacrificed to the god before proceeding to Elis, an important ally of the Aetolians. The Elean regime consisted of an assembly that took care to serve the interests of the farmers, obviating the farmers’ need to participate in politics; on the other hand, the courts remained local, so that justice was readily preserved in the countryside as well as in the city. “It seems to me that all these measures and regulations, which were put in place long ago, owe their existence not just to the size of the territory, but above all to the sacrosanct life they once led”; “because of the Olympic Games, their land was to be sacrosanct and unviolated, so that they never knew fear or warfare” (IV.lxxiii). By the time of Philip’s invasion, however, they had changed their regime. Responding to territorial aggression from the Arcadians, “they were forced to defend their and change their way of life,” attempting to defend themselves without waiting for assistance from the other Greeks (IV.lxxiv). After that crisis, “they stayed with the status quo, which I think was misguided of them, and showed a distinct lack of forethought. What is it, after all, that all men pray that the gods will grant them? What is that we desire so much that we are prepared to endure anything to get it? What is it that is the only unquestionable good among all the things that men consider good? It is peace.” (IV.lxxiv). To the objection that a return to their pacific ways “would make them vulnerable to attack by an enemy who deliberately set out to make war on them, despite their sacred inviolability”—as the Aetolians had done—Polybius judges this “unlikely to happen” with forces sufficient to destroy the polis itself (IV.lxxiv). For such “minor acts of aggression” as that of the Arcadians, they could hire auxiliaries or mercenaries (IV.lxxiv). “But as things stand at the moment, they embroil themselves and their land in war after destructive war out of fear of a rare and unlikely occurrence” (IV.lxxiv). Their alliance with the Aetolians and the Spartans is a case in point. Warlike in their policy but peaceful in their way of life, they quickly succumbed to the experienced soldiers of Macedon, who captured some 5,000 prisoners and a huge quantity of spoils from this large, prosperous, yet inadequately defended polis.

In later years, Philip would turn tyrant. But in his youth, he readily “won friends throughout the Peloponnese” (IV.lxxvii). “It is hard to think of a king who was more richly endowed with the temperament necessary for the possession of power. He was outstandingly quick-witted, had an exceptional memory, and was extremely charismatic; he had the majesty and authority you would expect of a king; and above all he was an able and courageous soldier” (IV.lxxvii). His main difficulty during this campaign issued from the ambitions of his ambitious officer, Apelles, who pushed for a long-term strategy of subjugating the Achaeans, not the Aetolians. Apelles accused another officer, Aratus, of disloyalty. However, Philip weighed the evidence carefully and discovered the fraud. He kept Apelles in his entourage while now favoring Aratus. Undaunted, Apelles continued his attempts to aggrandize himself and undermine his rivals. He even began to interfere with the conduct of the war.

Seeing firsthand the geography of Greece, with its innumerable inlets and bays, Philip decided to “make the sea the main theater of war,” which would enable him to transport his army more rapidly—effectively turning them into ‘marines’ who could disembark to attack key poleis ruled by the enemy (V.i). As it happened, the Macedonians “were not only superb fighters in formal land battles, but they were also perfectly ready to serve at sea in an emergency” (V.i). 

In what may have been a hint of the underlying tyrannical cast of his soul, Philip violated the rules of war at the city of Thermum, where he burnt buildings associated with divine worship and toppled some 2,000 statues of the gods. Philip and his officers “were convinced that what they were doing was just and fitting”—retaliation for the Aetolians “sacrilegious crimes” elsewhere (V.ix). Polybius strongly disagrees. When Antigonous Doson overthrew the tyrant Cleomenes, he restored (however temporarily, as things turned out) the ancient regime of the Spartans “and their liberty” (V.ix); when Philip II, “the man who originally made Macedon great and first gave his house its high dignity,” defeated the Athenians in the battle of Chaeronea, “he achieved more through equity and kindness than he had through force of arms” (V.x). “Warfare and military might have brought him only the defeat and subjugation of his immediate opponents, but thanks to his tact and fairness he gained the submission of the entire population of Athens and the surrender of the city (V.x). He did not prolong the war out of anger, but fought and strived for victory only until it won him the opportunity to demonstrate his leniency and generosity”; indeed, “his magnanimity,” his greatness of soul, “cowed Athenian pride and changed them from enemies to willing allies in all his ventures” (V.x). Even his son, Alexander, while angrily razing Thebes to the ground and selling the Thebans into slavery, “never forgot the respect and reverence due to the gods” and left their temples and statues intact” (V.x). With such examples before him, Philip V “should have shown himself to have inherited and taken over from these men not just their throne, but, more importantly, their principles and magnanimity”; instead, “he never made the slightest effort to imitate them,” letting “anger get the better of him and act[ing] just as impiously as the Aetolians” (V.xi). “Even in wartime gratuitous damage to temples and statues and other works of art,” “valuable works that had been made with great skill from costly materials” (V.ix)—when “there is not the slightest chance that this will either help one’s own cause or weaken the enemy, is a sure sign of a fanatic in a rage” (V.xi).

“After all, a good man does not make war on wrongdoers to destroy and annihilate them, but to improve them and correct the error of their ways. And rather than eliminate the guiltless along with the guilty, he spares and saves both those whom he judges to have done wrong and those who are innocent. For injuring peoples and using fear to rule them against their will are sure signs of tyranny, but benefiting everyone, and leading and ruling people with their consent, are the marks of a king. Hating their subjects, tyrants become objects of hatred, whereas kings are loved for their benevolence and clemency.” (V.xi). Polybius ventures what we now call a ‘counterfactual’: “The best way to understand Philip’s mistake is to imagine what the Aetolians would probably have thought of him if he had done the opposite” (V.xi). “I am sure they would have regarded him as a man of the greatest integrity and clemency,” admirable for “the kingly and magnanimous way in which he demonstrated his piety towards the gods and restrained his anger towards them,” in contrast to the shameful behavior of the Aetolian League after their recent conquests (V.xi). Polybius thinks so for three reasons: “first, from the loser’s perspective, it is the difference between yielding of his own free will and yielding because he has no choice”; “second, for the victor, chastising the enemy by force of arms comes at a high price, whereas getting the enemy to see the error of his ways by the other method costs nothing”; “third, and most importantly, victory on the battlefield is due largely to subordinates, whereas the other kind of victory is due wholly to the commanding officer” (V.xii).

All this notwithstanding, Philip proved eminently capable as a warrior if not as a statesman, surprising the Spartans by rapidly advancing his troops by sea and by land. In the meantime, the officers who had been conspiring against him understood that their plot was detected and either killed themselves or died by execution. Leaving the outcome of Philip’s Grecian foray in suspense, Polybius turns to the war in Asia—specifically, the conflict over control of Coele Syria between the Seleucid emperor, Antiochus III, and Ptolomy IV of Egypt.

Ptolemy had inherited rule over Egypt. The country was secure; the young king became complacent, inattentive, decadent. His father and grandfather had paid close attention to foreign policy. “It was their possession of Coele Syria and Cyprus that had enabled them to threaten the kings of Syria on land and sea; their mastery of the most notable cities, regions, and ports along the entire coastline from Pamphylia to the Hellespont and the district of Lysimacheia had allowed them to influence the Asiatic princelings and the islands as well; and their possession of Aenus, Maroneia, and even more remote cities had enabled them also to watch over Thrace and Macedon” (V.xxxiv). Using these provinces as buffers and lookout stations against all possible rivals, they governed them assiduously. “But the administration of all these foreign possessions was a matter of indifference to Ptolemy IV, who was distracted by unsuitable love affairs and stupefied by non-stop carousing” (V.xxxiv). 

The first foreigner to take advantage of this was Cleomenes of Sparta, exiled to Egypt after his dethronement. He petitioned to be placed at the head of an expeditionary force, so that he could return to Greece and the fight in the war. Although Ptolemy didn’t care, his head of state, Sosibius, and the Egyptian royal council worried that Cleomenes might succeed all too well, conquer all of Greece and return to threaten Egypt. They denied Cleomenes’ petition, but he escaped house arrest.

Meanwhile, to the east of Egypt, the Seleucid empire had descended into civil war. The emperor, Antiochus, had assigned the governorship of Asia Minor to Achaeus, his inland province of Media to Molon and the satrap of Persis to Molon’s brother, Alexander. The brothers promptly raised a rebellion against the fifteen-year-old emperor, expecting little trouble from him but fearing the new head of state, Hermias, “a cruel and devious man” (V.xli). Hermias’ rival at court was Epigenes, who had proven himself a capable military commander and orator; “Hermias patiently bided his time, always waiting for an opportunity and excuse to bring Epigenes down” (V.xli). When Epigenes urged the emperor to put down the rebellion at once, accompanying the Egyptian troops, Hermias charged him with scheming to get the boy killed. Epigenes chose to overlook this accusation, putting it down to “an ill-timed fit of anger, rather than true hostility” (V.xlii). Epigenes’ real intention was indeed to make the emperor “busy with military service and constantly surrounded with danger” not to get him killed but to toughen him up, make him understand that the world is too dangerous to be ignored (V.xlii). 

With rich and sizeable Media under his rule and a solid alliance with his brother, Molon looked forward to the war with confidence. “All the inhabitants of Asia were absolutely terrified of him and he seemed unstoppable” (V.xlv). He defeated the Seleucid forces. The nonplussed Antiochus turned to Epigenes for advice. When Epigenes urged the emperor to continue the fight, Hermias again staged a tantrum, again in vain. But when the army nearly mutinied over the issue of back pay, Hermias offered to pay them out of his own pocket in exchange for the exclusion of Epigenes from the campaign. The emperor reluctantly agreed. Soon after, Hermias framed his rival and prevailed upon the emperor to execute him. Hermias now had every reason to suppose he could control the emperor. But when half of Molon’s troops betrayed their commander and went over to Antiochus, Molon committed suicide, fearing “the torture he would endure if he were captured alive” (V.liv). Antiochus could now do no more than crucify his corpse and gave the governorship of Media to a loyalist, Diogenes. This vindicated the war policy of the late Epigenes and discredited scheming Hermias. So, for good measure, the emperor’s courtiers assassinated Hermias; more, the women stoned his wife to death and “the children did the same for his sons” (V.lvi). 

Freed from the crisis in the interior provinces, Antiochus turned his attention to Coele Syria. On advice of his physician-counselor Apollophanes, who had warned him of Hermias’ perfidy, he first took the opportunity to seize Seleucia Pieria from Ptolemy, since that city in Egyptian hands would have hindered any operations in Syria. In 218, the war over Coele Syria began. Antiochus counted on Ptolemy’s disinclination “to assent on a decisive battle” (V.lxvi). He didn’t understand the character of Sosibius, Ptolemy’s head of state. Negotiations ensued, with each side claiming rightful rulership over the region, but Sosibius was already “completely committed to war,” and used the truce to ready the Egyptian forces (V.lxvii). Egypt had already allied with Achaeus, the Seleucid governor of Asia Minor, so Antiochus too steeled himself for the fight. He lost, at Rapha, in 217, then sued for peace. 

In Greece, the previous year, Philip, poised to beset Sparta, received a letter notifying him of Carthage’s defeat of Rome at Etruria. He shared the information with a close adviser, Demetrius of Pharos, who recommended a change of course. Instead of continuing his campaign in Greece, Philip should quickly make peace with the Aetolians, subdue Illyria and invade Italy. “All Greece,” Demetrius said, “was already subject to him, and that situation would last, now that the Achaeans had chosen to ally themselves with him and the Aetolians were struggling to recover from the war. But Italy was the first step to world conquest, which was his exclusive right”—as a direct descendant of Alexander the Great—and “there was no better time to invade Italy than now, when the Romans were down and out” (V.cii). “Young, fortunate in war, and known for his daring,” Philip was “seduced by Demetrius’ suggestion” (V.cii). For their part, the Aetolians proved as eager for peace as was Philip for conquest. The treaty conference “was the first occasion when Greek, Italian, and Libyan affairs became interconnected. From then on, the point of reference when Philip and the Greek leaders were deciding on war or peace with one another was no longer what was happening in Greece; everyone’s eyes were turned instead towards Italy and the intentions of people there” (cvi). For their part, the Romans became “concerned about just how far Philip would go,” and began to send out feelers to the Greeks (V.cvi).

As planned, Philip invaded and conquered Illyria, further worrying the Romans. But of course their main concern was Hannibal, who had just defeated them at Cannae. “That was how things stood in Greece and Asia” (V.cx). Polybius will now pause to consider the Roman regime.

He has already shown the radical difference between republicanism and monarchy. Whether in Egypt, the Seleucid empire, Macedon, or Sparta, monarchic rule depends squarely not only on the character of ‘the one’ ruler but on the intrigues undertaken by those around him. Whether it is Hermias in the Seleucid court or Demetrius whispering into Philip’s ear, monarchs are prey to their confidants. Republics may be to faction what air is to fire but factionalism inflames monarchies, too, although it is restricted to a very small circle.  

In addition to the problems inherent in regimes, Polybius sees those inherent in size. Small political societies, city-states, find themselves continually threatened by their larger neighbors. But empires are threatened not only by rival empires but by ambitious provincial governors with eyes on the emperor’s throne. Given his elaboration of such dilemmas, Polybius’ turn to the Roman regime is quite logical

 

 

 

 

Note

1. The most famous example was the German end-around France’s fortified Maginot Line in 1940; decades later, United States troops demonstrated the same tactics in their two wars in Iraq. The French had been warned by a then-obscure army officer, Charles de Gaulle, whose 1934 book, Vers l’armée de métier argued (in vain, as it happened) for such a mobile force as a needed supplement to the defensive borderline ‘shell.’ For commentary, see Will Morrisey: Reflections on De Gaulle: Political Founding in Modernity (Lanham: University Press of America, second edition, 2002).

 

 

 

Polybius: The Histories. Robin Waterfield translation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

 

 

A Greek from Megalopolis, Arcadia, researching, thinking, writing in Rome during the second century BC, Polybius acknowledges that all preceding historians have held that “knowledge of past events” provides an excellent “corrective of human behavior” because there is no better way “to prepare and train oneself for political life” than the study of those events and because “there is no more comprehensible and comprehensive teacher of the ability to endure with courage the vicissitudes of Fortune than a record of others’ catastrophes” (I.i). Among the possible topics for such study, Rome ranks at the top—specifically, Rome under the republican regime. “Is there anyone on earth who is so narrow-minded or uninquisitive that he could fail to want to know how and thanks to what regime almost the entire known world was conquered and brought under a single empire, the empire of the Romans, in less than fifty-three years [that is, between 220 and 167 BC]—an unprecedented event?” (I.i). By the known world, Polybius means those regions surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, extending from the Persians in the east to the Iberians in the west, from the Byzantines and Gauls in the north to the Egyptians and Carthaginians in the south. Greeks were of course aware of regions farther afield (Alexander had reached India two centuries before Polybius died) but the Mediterranean was known familiarly by trading, soldiering, and diplomacy. 

The Romans “have made themselves masters of almost the entire known world, not just some bits of it, and have left such a colossal empire that no one alive today can resist it and no one in the future will be able to overcome it. My work will make it possible to understand more clearly how the empire was gained, and no reader will be left in doubt about the many important benefits to be gained from reading political history” (I.ii) Political history: as a student of Aristotle, Polybius knows that political life centers on regimes, and that regimes consist of rulers, ruling institutions, the purposes set by the rulers acting through those institutions, and the ways of life fostered by the rulers and institutions in pursuit of those purposes. This explains a feature of Polybius’ history which may seem odd to modern readers. After the first five books, the first “pentad,” he offers a book describing the Roman regime itself—an exercise in political science, not history. Polybius’ history is indeed the story of the Roman regime in motion; but to help his reader understand the regime’s structure he needs to bring the action to a rest, to look at its form, its animating principles, and the human ‘type’ it brings forth. Only an account of Rome’s regime can clarify Rome’s actions and explain their success. As Aristotle teaches, politic is architectonic.

Persia, Sparta, and Macedon had built empires before Rome. None of them was as extensive. The extensiveness of Rome requires an equally wide-ranging history—what we would now call a ‘geopolitical’ account of Rome’s conquests. “Before this time, things happened in the world pretty much in a sporadic fashion, because every incident was specific, from start to finish, to the part of the world where it happened. But ever since [the time of “the so-called Social War in Greece” beginning in 220] history has resembled a body, in the sense that incidents in Italy and Libya and Asia and Greece are all interconnected, and everything tends towards a single outcome” (I.iii). “The distinctive feature of my work (which is at the same time the most remarkable feature of our epoch)” is precisely that “Fortune has turned almost all the events of the known world in a single direction and has forced everything to tend towards the same goal.” Polybius intends to show how Fortune accomplished this; “no one else in our times has attempted to write [such] a universal history,” centered on “the finest thing Fortune has ever achieved, and the one from which we can learn most” (I.iv). Unlike many modern geopolitical writers, however, Polybius does not explain geopolitics in terms of ‘power,’ simply, as if ‘states’ resembled billiard balls differing only in size, density, and velocity. He understands geopolitics in terms of rival regimes, each with its own ruling persons, complex structure, purposes, way of life. He describes not only the Roman regime but the regimes of Carthage, Macedon, the Greeks, Egypt, the Gauls. The first two books of the history will therefore treat particularly of the intentions of the Roman rulers and the point at which they decided to found an empire, not only of their forces and resources (which all geopolitical writers discuss).

To understanding the starting point, the archē, of the Roman empire, Polybius reaches back several decades the final consolidation of Rome’s rule over Italy. In the wars leading up to that, “their trials of strength against the Samnites and Celts had already made them true athletes of warfare” (I.vi). This is the first suggestion that the Roman regime was a specific kind of republic, a military republic—as contrasted with the largely commercial, seafaring republics of Carthage and much later, of Great Britain and the United States. By 280 BC, Romans “for the first time set out against the rest of Italy, treating it not as foreign soil, but for the most part as if it were already theirs and belonged to them” (I.vi). The occasion was the invasion of Italy by Pyrrhus, king of the Greek polis, Epirus, who was called in by the people of Tarentum, who were frightened of the Romans but lacked the strength to fight them alone; the people of Rhegium, themselves threatened both by Pyrrhus’ forces and the Carthaginian navy, in turn called in the Romans to defend them. Roman troops betrayed Rhegium, seized it, but were eventually killed or taken prisoner by a subsequent Roman expeditionary force; the Romans, enraged at the betrayal of an ally by their own men, “lost no time in returning the land and the city to the people of Rhegium” (I.vii). As for Pyrrhus, he defeated the Romans in several battles but, famously, incurred such heavy losses that he was forced to return to Greece. Rome’s military republic thus exhibited resiliency and honor, keeping its army under civilian rule while encouraging the military spirit amongst its citizens while uniting Italy under its hegemony.

That left the Carthaginians as their main rival in the western Mediterranean. The Romans saw that “the Carthaginians had subjugated not only Libya but much of Iberia too, as well as controlling all the islands in the Sardinian and Tyrrhenian seas, and they were worried that, if the Carthaginians came to dominate Sicily too, they would become too much of a threat and a danger on their borders, since they would surround the Romans and threaten Italy on all sides” (I.x). Although the aristocratic Senate was cautious, the people wanted to defend the Sicilian city of Messana from the Carthaginians, motivated not only by geopolitical concerns but by “the certainty of significant profit for each and every one of them” if Roman rule over Sicily could be secured (I.xi). “That was the first time an armed force of Romans left Italy by sea” (I.xii), touching off the first war with Carthage. Just as in the United States, debate in the 1890s centered on the question of acquiring an ‘overseas empire’—as distinguished from the Jeffersonian ’empire of liberty’ extending across North America, which preoccupied American statesmen from the founding until 1890, a series of land purchases and conquests that had come to be described as the nation’s ‘Manifest Destiny’—so for Rome the advance to the neighboring island, Sicily, into the Mediterranean itself, was understood as a major step towards a ‘real’ empire. In this first imperial venture, the Romans won, defeating the Carthaginians and securing a foothold in Sicily. Their position strengthened when the Syracusan monarch, Hieron, chose to side with the Romans, becoming the Romans’ “source of provisions in times of emergency” and enjoying, in return, “safety for the rest of his life” (I.xvi). As for the Romans, in the ensuing conflicts with Carthage, they “were saved…by the excellence of their institution,” which (for example) habituated their soldiers to stand fast at their posts during a surprise raid by the Carthaginians (I.xvii).

The Romans did well in the Sicilian land war, soon capturing the Carthaginian stronghold at Acragus. But “as long as the Carthaginians had undisputed control of the sea, the outcome of the war hung in the balance,” with coastal towns especially inclined to switch allegiance as easily as shifts in the sea breeze (I.xx). Therefore, “the Romans committed themselves to taking the sea along with the Carthaginians,” in the hope not only of defending their own coast against enemy raids but of taking the war to Libya (I.xx). “Their shipwrights had no experience at all” in building ships “but this is exactly what reveals, more clearly than anything else, the scope and daring inherent in the Romans’ decision”—a daring bred into them, as it were, by the military ethos of their form of republicanism (I.xx). By the year 260, having built a fleet modeled on a captured Carthaginian vessel, they were launching their own raids on enemy territory; with their own technical innovation the ‘raven,’ which enabled their men to board rival ships easily, they won a number of their early encounters with the far more experienced sailors of Carthage. 

A couple of years later, they mounted a serious naval offensive, “want[ing] the Carthaginians to feel that their very existence and their homeland were at risk”—the “last thing the Carthaginians wanted, because they were aware that Libya was vulnerable to an offensive and that any invader would easily subjugate the entire population there” (I.xxvi). They made an unsuccessful attempt to intercept the Roman fleet at sea; the Romans went on to seize one of their coastal cities. Desperate, the Carthaginians appealed to the Spartans, who sent an experienced general to their aid; the Spartans had no interest in seeing Rome continue its expansion. With his advice and training, the Carthaginians defeated the invaders, capturing their general. 

“There are a number of lessons to be learnt here, by any man of discernment, that should help him improve his life” (I.xxxv). First, “Regulus’ ruin brought home to everyone at the time in the most stark manner the advisability of distrusting Fortune, especially when things are going well” (I.xxxv). Second, in dealing with Fortune (as Euripides wrote), “A wise plan is stronger than many hands”: “just one man,” the Spartan general, Xanthippus, “one intellect, overcame a host that had seemed invincible and irresistible, revived a state that had plainly hit rock bottom, and alleviated the despair that had gripped its armed force” (I.xxxv). Third, it’s better to learn such things from reading a judicious historian than from the school of hard knocks; as Polybius drily puts it, “opportunities for changing one’s life for the better are afforded by both one’s own setbacks and those of others, and while learning from personal disasters drives the lesson home most forcefully, learning from others’ afflictions is less painful” (I.xxxv). “And so we see that there is no teacher better at preparing one for real life than the experience of reading political history, because only political history delivers, without pain, the ability to judge the better course of action, whatever the occasion or the situation” (I.xxxv). 

The Romans evacuated their troops but the returning fleet was destroyed by a powerful storm along the Sicilian coast. “No record has survived of a greater single catastrophe at sea, and blame for it must go not, as one might unthinkingly assume, to Fortune, but to the commanders,” who had been warned by experienced pilots not to sail along the coastline facing the Libyan Sea, since “it was too wild for safe anchorage” during one of the frequent storms there (I.xxxvii). “Generally speaking, the Romans rely on force for everything,” regarding “nothing as impossible once they have made up their minds” (I.xxxvii). Such martial bravado often serves them well, especially on land, but the sea is more yielding to Fortune, and Fortune there is far more powerful than men, even Romans. 

The war thus proved an equal struggle for many years, gouging each other on land and at sea “like pedigree fighting cocks” (lvii). Or, deploying another metaphor in describing the battles led by the great Carthaginian commander Hamilcar Barca and the Roman, Lucius Junius Pullus , “I cannot here give a thorough account of these struggles; the opposing generals were like a pair of exceptionally brave and skillful boxers fighting it out in a contest for first prize, who pummel each other so incessantly with blow after blow that it is impossible for either the contestants or the spectators to note and anticipate every single attack or punch, thought the overall vigor and determination displayed by the two men can be used to gain an adequate impression of their skill and strength and courage” (I.lvii). After twenty-four years of such struggle, the Romans’ persistence in fighting at sea finally made the Carthaginian occupation of Sicily untenable; they agreed to evacuate not only Sicily but all the islands between Sicily and Italy. 

“Powers beyond the Romans’ control, such as Fortune, had no bearing on the assurance with which they set out to make themselves rulers and masters of the whole world; they had perfectly reasonable grounds for this, because of the training they received in the course of this critical and colossal war, and it was this training that enabled them to attain their objective” (I.lxii). The experience gained in this initial, prolonged struggle in effect both toughened and refined the overall character of their regime, which Polybius will describe more fully in Book VI—where it will, he assures us, “receive the prominence it deserves and will repay careful attention from my readers” (I.lxiv). 

In the aftermath of their defeat, the Carthaginians faced a major civil war, a war caused by the commercial republican character of their own regime. Commerce lends itself to sea-craft, and Carthage held their own in the Mediterranean. Commerce does not lend itself to land armies, at least not to the extent that the military ethos of Roman republicanism did. As a result, the Carthaginians employed mercenary troops consisting of “various barbarian tribes”—unhesitatingly warlike, to be sure, but none too amenable to military organization and discipline (I.lxv). Having lost a long and expensive war, the Carthaginians couldn’t pay their troops, assuming “that they could get the mercenaries to forgo some of their back pay, if they made them all welcome en masse in Carthage” (I.lxvi). Still wanting the money owed them, and little scrupulous about how to obtain it, the barbarians almost immediately took to crime; more generally, “the unruliness of the mob became a matter of concern” (I.lxvi). Even after they were relocated to the town of Sicca, in Tunis, mutiny threatened. “But all the different peoples and languages created nothing but an incoherent muddle, and the state of the army may truly be described as one of frenzy”; “while ethnic pluralism in any army is a good way of reducing the chances of concerted dissidence or insubordination, it is a very bad idea when the men are resentful or hostile or mutinous, and need to have things explained to them, to be calmed down, and to have their false impressions corrected” (I.lxvii) Such men “behave in a deranged fashion, like the most savage of beasts” (I.lxvii). Too late, “the Carthaginians clearly understood how stupid they had been, and the magnitude of their errors” (I.lxviii). Even when the Carthaginians were able to meet their initial demands, the mercenaries upped the price of settlement.

On top of that, Libyan rebels organized the mercenaries and “openly made war on the Carthaginians” (I.lxx). “The Carthaginians had always depended on the produce of their farmland [in Libya] to sustain them in their private lives,” with “mercenary troops [to] do their fighting for them. But now they had lost all of these resources at once, and as if that were not enough, these resources were being deployed against them” (lxxi). “Previously, they had been challenging the Romans for possession of Sicily, but now, with a civil war on their hands, their very existence and their homeland were at stake,” far more than it had been when the Romans sent their naval forces against them (I.lxxi). As a result of the Sicilian War, they had no ships in reserve; they had no supplies in the territories beyond the contested ground of Libya, and “there was no chance of any support from friends and allies abroad,” perhaps because a civil war didn’t threaten foreigners (I.lxxi). 

They had no one to blame but themselves because “during the Sicilian War they had felt themselves justified in treating their Libyan subjects harshly,” taking half of their agricultural produce from them for decades and doubling the tax rate in Libyan cities and towns (I.lxxii). This notwithstanding, the commercial republic, despite its paucity of homegrown soldiers, did have capable generals. Hamilcar Barca was the greatest of them, but Hanno, who had served as military governor of the province so harshly during the Sicilian War, was a better general than civil administrator. The Carthaginians put him in charge of suppressing the revolt. Unfortunately, although he was good at war preparations he was “generally incompetent and negligent” on the battlefield (I.lxxiv). He had never fought battle-hardened troops before, having been detailed to defend Carthage against the Numidians, a nation whose troops “would vanish over the horizon and flee for two or three days once they had been turned in battle” (I.lxxiv). The mercenaries were tougher than that. Hanno was relieved by Hamilcar Barca, who made alliance with a young Numidian aristocrat who had Carthaginian ancestors. Combined, the Carthaginian and Numidian troops crushed the rebels in one battle, only to suffer reverses later on—reverses so severe that Carthage itself was besieged.

Enter Hieron of Syracuse, who sent aid to Carthage after making “sure that it was in his own best interests…that Carthage should survive,” as “he did not want to see the stronger side in the Rome-Carthage balance to gain its objective without any struggle” (I.lxxxiii). “This was sound and sensible thinking on his part: such a situation should never be ignored, nor should one help anyone gain so much power that disagreement becomes impossible even when everyone knows where justice lies” (I.lxxxiii). Even Rome itself backed Carthage, perhaps because it preferred to deal with a civilized rival that it had defeated than an uncivilized one of the sort which had threatened Rome itself in years past. This policy served them well in the short run, although in the longer term they would regret it.

Polybius hints at why the Romans might regret the preservation of Carthage against the barbarians when he recounts the end of the war. True, “the mercenaries proved themselves the equals of their opponents in terms of tactics and daring, but often found themselves at a disadvantage because of inexperience. In fact, it looks as though it was possible at that time to see at first hand the great difference between generalship, with its scientifically acquired experience, and the mindless knack of soldiering, which lacks such experience.” (I.lxxxiv). Hamilcar fought “like a good backgammon player,” dividing and trapping his enemy in ambushes; “anyone taken alive was thrown to the elephants” (I.lxxxiv). “In the end,” the mercenaries “were reduced by starvation to cannibalism—divine retribution for their violation of the laws of gods and men in the way they treated others” (I.lxxxiv). First, they ate their prisoners, then their slaves; when “the officers were sure that the men would be driven by the severity of their suffering to make them their next victims” (officers, after all, tend to be sleeker and better-fed than common soldiers) they treated for peace. Hamilcar seized them as hostages when they arrived in his camp to negotiate the surrender then surrounded the Libyans and their barbarian allies and “slaughtered them all” (I.lxxxv). One of the rebel leaders was “crucified for all to see” (I.lxxxvi). His partner in rebellion escaped and managed to inflict more damage on the Carthaginian forces before his final capture.

At this point Rome took its short-term reward. Over Carthaginian protests, Roman forces seized Sardinia. “With little choice in the matter,” the Carthaginians “not only gave up Sardinia, but paid an additional 1,200 talents to the Romans, to avoid facing another war for the time being” (I.xxxvii). But as civilized masters of war, they were not yet done with the Romans.

Indeed, “as soon as they had settled affairs in Libya, the Carthaginians mustered an army and sent Hamilcar to Iberia,” a mission he undertook with his usual skill (II.i). He stayed there for nine years “and succeeded, by military means or diplomacy, in getting a great deal of the Iberian population to accept Carthaginian dominion” (II.i). He died in battle, not before apprenticing his son, Hannibal, to military and civilian rule, and swearing the boy to nurse a lifelong hatred of Rome. 

The Romans had turned their imperial attention to Illyria and eastern Europe, where Demetrius II, king of Macedon, had bribed the Illyrian king to attempt to lift the siege of the Greek city of Medion, besieged by the Aetolians. The Illyrians and Medionites routed the Aetolians, lifting the siege. Polybius takes the opportunity to emphasize the power of Fortune. “It was as though Fortune were deliberately using [the Medionites’] situation to demonstrate her power to all of us, by allowing them to do to their enemies exactly what, not long before, they had expected their enemies to very shortly be doing to them. the lesson the Aetolians taught everyone else by their unexpected setback was never to treat a future event as if it were a fait accompli, and never to look forward with any certainty to anything that may yet turn out quite different. mere mortals should always make allowance for the unexpected, especially in warfare.” (II.iv). 

Nor was Fortune done with her instruction. The Illyrian king died of pleurisy after his drunken victory revels, leaving his wife Teuta as inheritor of the throne. “Typically, given the way a woman’s mind works, she could see nothing apart from the victory they had just won and failed to take account of what was happening elsewhere” directing her officers to go on a plundering expedition along the coastline of Elis and Messenia (II.iv). They seized the Epirus by bribing Gaul mercenaries stationed there; the Epirots asked both the Aetolian League and the Achaean League for assistance in retaking their polis. Unaccountably, after their allies succeeded in expelling the Illyrians, the Epirots entered into an alliance with their erstwhile enemies against the two leagues. “The stupidity of this way of treating benefactors was obvious, but it showed how fundamentally their policies lacked intelligent guidance. When disasters are unforeseeable, as happens in the lives of men, we blame not the victims, but Fortune and any human agents who were responsible; but when someone’s stupid behavior brings utter ruin down on himself, when he could have avoided it, everyone recognizes that the victim himself is at fault.” (II.vi-vii). From trusting the Gauls to betraying their allies, the Epirots blundered their way towards a more lasting defeat, later on.

Meanwhile, Queen Teuta’s continued depredations began to interest Rome. She treated Roman envoys “with an air of arrogance and disdain” (II.viii), pretending that the marauding Illyrian ships were mere privateers over whom she exercised no control. When the younger of the two envoys reprimanded her for this policy she had him murdered “in defiance of the law of nations” (II.viii). “When news of the murder reached Rome, the woman’s crime aroused such anger that military preparations became the first order of priority, and they set about calling up their legions and gathering a fleet” (II.viii).  For her part, Queen Teuta ordered her forces to besiege the Greek city of Corcyra, both the Aetolians and the Achaeans sent ships in an effort to lift the siege. But the Illyrians won the ensuing naval battle. Then the Roman navy arrived in Corcyrea, where they were welcomed by Demetrius of Macedon, who had allied with Teuta, occupied the city, but now saw good reason to cede it to the Romans, rightly calculating what the new balance of power in Greece was likely to become. With their habitual thoroughness, the Romans proceeded to wrest several Greek cities from Illyrian hands, leaving their administration to their newfound ally, Demetrius. Reduced to a more sensible mood, Queen Teuta concluded a peace treaty with the Roman general, Postumius, who then sent embassies to the Aetolians and Achaeans to “explain why they had fought a war on foreign soil” and to show them the treaty with Illyria. “The treaty made life considerably more secure for the Greeks, because at that time the Illyrians were not particular about whom they attacked; no one was spared their hostility” (II.xii). The Romans followed up this first military expedition to Greek territory with diplomatic missions to Corinth and Athens. 

In Iberia, Hamilcar Barca’s son-in-law, Hasdrubal, succeeded him as provincial governor of Iberia. “The Romans could see that the Carthaginians were creating a larger and more formidable empire than before, and they committed themselves to a course of interference in Iberian affairs. They realized that they had been caught napping while the Carthaginians assembled a large army, so they wanted to move things along as quickly as possible, but in the short term they did not dare to give the Carthaginians an ultimatum or go on the offensive against them, because of the looming threat of a Celtic invasion, which they expected any day. They decided they had to pacify Hasdrubal and make sure he was no kind of threat, so that they could then attack the Celts and fight to the finish.” (II.xiii). They enacted a treaty with Hasdrubal, whereby the Carthaginians pledged not to cross the Ebro River in northeastern Iberia with their troops. “And then the Romans immediately embarked upon the war against the Celts” (II.xiii).

Polybius takes care to describe the Celtic regime, which pervaded a set of tribes, ruling no fixed polis or empire. “Their villages were unwalled and lacked any other civilized amenities. They lived simple lives, sleeping on straw and eating meat skilled in nothing apart from warfare and farming, without the slightest inkling of any other science or craft. their wealth consisted of cattle and gold, because they were easily transportable wherever they went; whatever the circumstances, they could move these possessions from one place to another at whim. The most important thing was for a man to have a following, because whoever was thought to have the largest number of attendants and retainers was held in awe as the most powerful chieftain among them.” (II.xvii). They had warred with the Romans off and on for a long time, sometimes in alliance with the Gauls, who proved no more reliable allies of theirs than they did anywhere, with anyone. 

By 232 BC, the troubles renewed, and in 226 the Gauls entered the fray, crossing the Alps into Italy. This actually helped Rome, as “the people of Italy were so frightened by the approach of the Gauls that they no longer thought of themselves as fighting in support of Rome, nor did it cross their minds that the purpose of the war was Roman supremacy; all the allies took the danger personally and saw it as a direct threat to their own cities and lands, and were happy to do what the Romans wanted” (II.xxiii). After inflicting heavy casualties on Rome and its allies, putting Rome itself in “terrible danger,” the Celts were defeated (II.xxxi). “In terms of the depravity and recklessness of the contestants, and also of the numbers of combatants and casualties involved in the battles,” this war “was second to none in recorded history” (II.xxxv). More than that, it is worth recording because “if future generations are unaware of these events, they will be utterly distraught at sudden and unexpected barbarian invasions, when all they need to do is briefly bear in mind that any barbarian threat is temporary and easily disposed of, and then they can endure the invasion and exhaust every last resource at their command, rather than give up anything important” (II.xxxv). Despite the “myriads of men” in the barbarian host, despite “all their fearlessness and their armament”—all elements of their regime, their way of life—they were “destroyed by the resolve and the resources of those who faced danger intelligently and rationally” (II.xxxv). No civilized people uncorrupted by luxury need be “dismayed by immense quantities of supplies and weapons, and hordes of troops, into abandoning all hope and failing to fight for his land and the country of his birth,” as the Greeks were in Polybius’ time, but as the Romans were not, and as the Greeks were not before that, when they confronted the Persian invasion chronicled by Herodotus (II.xxxv). 

In Iberia, after Hasdrubal’s assassination by a Celt who harbored a personal grudge against him, young Hannibal took over the Carthaginian forces. True to his vow to the gods before his father, “right from the start of his command, he made no secret of his intention to make war on the Romans” (II.xxxvi). His spectacular crossing of the Alps and the ensuing “Hannibalic War” will occupy Polybius’ attention throughout Book III.  But it is the war between the Aetolian League and the Achaean League (with Macedon as its ally) serves as Polybius’ final topic in Book II. This war effected the beginning of the unification of the Peloponnese in a federal system of poleis. As a political historian, Polybius will explain how this unifying movement compared and contrasted with the successful unification of Italy under Rome.

“There had been many attempts in the past to unify the Peloponnesians, but none of them succeeded because each polis was interested only in its own supremacy, not in freedom for all alike” (II.xxxvii). By Polybius’ time, he writes, “this cause has made considerable progress” because the regimes by then were “more or less identical from city to city” (II.xxxvii). It was the Achaeans who unified Greece for a time, as a result of their victory in the so-called “Social War.” “Why,” Polybius asks, “were they and everyone else in the Peloponnese happy to take on the Achaean system of government and the Achaean name? What induced them to do so?” (II.xxxviii). To say ‘Fortune’ will not do. “We need to look deeper for a reason, knowing that even things that seem improbable have causes, just as much as comprehensible events, because otherwise they would not happen” (II.xxxviii).

Polybius locates that cause in the same place he locates the cause of Roman rule: the regime. “One would be hard put to find equality and the right to speak one’s mind in assembly—in short, the regime and principles of true democracy—in a purer form than among the Achaeans” (II.xxxviii). This mattered ‘geopolitically’ because democracy “won over” Greeks initially suspicious of it “by the persuasive power of reason”; those not so persuaded acceded at first to “the timely application of force” but soon “exchanged resistance for contentment” because democracy “reserved no privileges for any of her original devotees and treated all as equals, regardless of when they came over to her side”—a lesson followed by the Framers of the United States Constitution when they granted each new state equal standing in the American Union (II.xxxviii). “Democracy, then, was the instigator and agent, and we look no further to explain how the Peloponnesians came to cooperate and forge their current prosperity,” as well (II.xxxviii). Whereas Greek cities had been “rife with murder, conflict, and mayhem of all kinds,” it was only “the Achaeans whose integrity they trusted and to whom they looked for a solution to their current troubles” (II.xxxix). 

The League was founded in 280 BC, with four members; in ten years it had ten members. Its founders had a model in the original Achaean League, founded long before but conquered by the Macedonians. Although that league featured monarchic regimes, the relations among them were democratic, with each of its twelve poleis having an equal vote on common policies. The new league was democratic in respect of both its federal relations and the regimes of the poleis composing it.

A major advance for the League came in 243 BC, when the twenty-year-old Aratus “liberated his city,” Sicyon, “from tyranny through his own valor and courage, and brought Sicyon into the League. He had always been an admirer of the Achaeans’ political principles.” (II.xliii). As a general, he liberated Corinth and Megara, at the same time that Rome forced the Carthaginians to evacuate Sicily. All [Aratus’] policies and all his actions were directed towards a single goal: expelling the Macedonians from the Peloponnese, banishing the tyrants, and guaranteeing every polis its ancestral freedom, as a member of the League” (II.xliii). Initially, the Aetolians allied with the Macedonians in attempted to destroy the League, but after the death of the Aetolian monarch in 239 the two leagues joined forces against the Macedonians. Ten years later, with the death of the Macedonian king, Demetrius II, the remaining tyrants in the Peloponnese abdicated, seeing that they could no longer maintain their rule without their principal backer. This unified the Achaean region in a single federation.

The Aetolians, “an innately aggressive and rapacious people,” soon broke their alliance and renewed their alliance with Macedon (II.xlv). They also hoped to bring the Spartans into their alliance. “In all probability they would soon have met with success, except they overlooked a critical flaw in their plans. They failed to take into consideration that this initiative of theirs would bring them up against Aratus, a man who could cope with any crisis.” (II.xlv). Aratus did the Aetolians one better, making a secret alliance with the Macedonian king, Antigonus Doson, persuading him that the Aetolians were more dangerous to Macedon than the Achaeans. Defeated in three battles by the Spartans, he then called upon the Macedonians for assistance; the Achaeans appointed Antigonus as the commander-in-chief of the allied armies. In 222, he defeated the Spartans. Crucially, and despite the harshness of the Spartans during the war (they destroyed the Achaean polis of Megalopolis, Polybius’ home town), his treatment of the enemy “was nothing but generous and humane, and he reestablished their ancestral regime,” which had been overthrown by the tyrant Cleomenes, the Spartan ruler during the war (II.lxx). “He had personally made it possible for all the inhabitants of Greece to look forward to a better future, not just as a result of what he had done for them in the field, but even more because he was a man of principle and integrity” (II.lxx). 

The Cleomenean War, as this one was called, preceded the Social War, to which Polybius will turn in a subsequent book of this pentad. He has shown how the Romans, having established hegemony in Italy, began their overseas empire by taking Sicily and Sardinia from the Carthaginians and by a short-lived foray into Illyria. He has described the Carthaginian consolidation of rule in Iberia and the founding and defense of the Achaean League. All of these events will contribute the establishment of the Roman empire throughout the Mediterranean, the “known world.”

In the course of relating these events and establishing their causes, Polybius clearly presents the elements of the political education he intends to provide through political history, which provides those who aspire to statesmanship or to historiography (Polybius was an accomplished practitioner of both arts) with some of the experience needed to build up the practical wisdom necessary for success in either of those fields of endeavor. He invites his readers to learn politics by considering four main topics.

First, he measures the strength and limitations of Fortune. No doubt, there are forces beyond human control—the sudden storm, the untimely illness, the small accident that brings on a calamitous outcome. But although Polybius would never claim that Fortune can be mastered, as his admirer Machiavelli contends, he does think that intelligent and experienced statesmen and generals can minimize it, often by avoiding extremes of passion and the actions prompted by them. This is the advantage civilized peoples enjoy over barbarians, and he takes care to notice both the Carthaginian defeat of barbarian mercenaries and the Roman defeat of the combined forces of Celts and Gauls—demonstrating that two sharply differing republican regimes could knock down the worst efforts of warlike, sizeable but ill-organized and ill-disciplined tribal hordes.

Second, and with respect to regimes, he contrasts the military republic of Rome with the commercial republic of Carthage. The disadvantage of the commercial republic is its practice of trying to buy the armies that defend it; mercenaries prove less reliable than one’s own troops (and here Machiavelli wholeheartedly concurs). A potential weakness of the military republic is over-reliance on force; accordingly, Polybius emphasizes Rome’s civilian control of its military, its successful diplomatic efforts, and the effectiveness of a prudent mixture of persuasion and military action seen in Aratus, the great statesman/general of the Achaean League. 

Third, in addition to regimes he addresses the matter of what might be called ‘states’—political communities organized not only according to the number and types of rulers, ruling institutions, purposes, and ways of life but with respect to size and degree of centralization. Tribal organizations are too small by themselves, too apt to fall into frequent disputes amongst themselves when confederated, and almost always too impassioned to think straight. Empires consist of the rule of one people over a collection of subordinate peoples. They defeat barbaric tribes, thanks to their superior organization and rationality. They can be vulnerable to civil war, including civil wars fomented by their enemies, who aim at re-dividing them out of self-defense or in the hope of conquering them and incorporating them into their own empires. Despite the spectacular success of Rome, Polybius seems to favor the federal state, seen in his native Achaea, whereby democratic-republican regimes combine for purposes of defense and commerce.

Finally, in terms of geopolitics he describes the beginnings of the interconnectedness of Italy, Libya, Greece, and Asia. He does so, however, in a manner distinct, and distinctly more accurate than, the ‘geopoliticians’ of the last century-and-a-half, often devotees of the German school of Realpolitik, who reduce politics to power relations. That is, not only are the Mediterranean regions shown to be interconnected militarily, politically, and commercially, his four topics intertwine, as well. Under Polybius’ Aristotelian gaze, Realpolitik looks not so real and not so politic.

 

 

 

Klaus Schwab and Thierry Malleret: COVID-19: The Great Reset. Cologny: Forum Publishing, 2020.

 

 

Written six months into the coronavirus pandemic, this book urges the use of the disease to accelerate the project variously known as ‘world government,’ ‘global governance,’ or ‘globalism’. Both authors are economists (the senior author no less than the executive chairman of the World Economic Forum); they keep their ultimate goal vaguely stated, but the end game is fairly obvious. More than three decades ago, I had a conversation with a young middle-management fellow who worked on Wall Street. He earnestly explained how the world would be much better off if executives of international corporations ruled it. Our authors are less blunt in their advocacy for a global oligarchy but it’s safe to say that that’s what they want.

Their rhetorical strategy cannot be described as subtle. The pandemic is “our defining moment”; “many things will change forever.” Luckily, such “deep, existential crises” as this “favor introspection and can harbor the potential for transformation.” Indeed “people feel the time for reinvention has come.” What people? People like themselves, at least for starters, and what a heady thought that is: “A new world will emerge, the contours of which are for us to both imagine and draw,” now that “a fundamental inflection point in our global trajectory” has so happily occurred. How fundamental? Well, “Radical changes of such consequence are coming that some pundits have referred to a ‘before coronovirus’ (BC) and ‘after coronovirus’ (AC) era.” That would be fundamental, all right. One could almost say ‘messianic.’

Past epidemics, notably the Black Death, have led to pogroms, wars, famines. Admittedly, this one “doesn’t pose a new existential threat,” as “whole populations will neither be exterminated nor displaced.” Nonetheless, “the pandemic is dramatically exacerbating pre-existing dangers that we’ve failed to confront adequately for too long,” the chief of which is “the partial retreat from globalization” seen in the rise of nationalism. The authors therefore undertake to show that the only cure for such a horror is a firm move towards internationalism, assuring their readers that “the possibilities for change and the resulting new order are now unlimited and only bound by our imagination, for better or for worse.” “We should take advantage of this unprecedented opportunity to reimagine our world, in a bid to make it a better and more resilient one as it emerges on the other side of this crisis.” “Better and more resilient” means (they assure us) “more egalitarian” not “more authoritarian,” with “more solidarity” not “more individualism,” “favoring the interests of the many” not “the few.” Exactly how the administrative rule of organizations like the World Economic Forum would make things more egalitarian, fraternal, and people-favoring has proved a puzzle for ‘progressives’ for the last two centuries or so. For the most part, our authors tiptoe around questions regarding the underlying political question: the regime they have in mind.

Economists to the bone, they deploy textbook jargon in labeling the book’s three main topics: the “macro reset,” the “micro reset,” and “possible consequences at the individual level.” The “macro reset” consists of five categories: economic, social, geopolitical, environmental, and technological; it is noteworthy that “geopolitical” substitutes for political, which would bring up such messy problems of conflicting political regimes which rule sovereign countries.  Throughout the discussions of these categories they provide a “conceptual framework” which identifies “three defining characteristics of today’s world”: interdependence, velocity, and complexity. By “interdependence” they mean “the dynamic of reciprocal dependence among the elements that compose a system.” The “system” they have in mind is of course the world itself, which they liken to a cruise ship currently afflicted with a contagious disease spreading from cabin to cabin,” owing to “global governing failure.” By “velocity” they mean the “culture of immediacy” the Internet has wrought. Velocity engenders impatience, a time lag between events and the ability of rulers to react to them, and an overload of information that slows rulers’ decision-making still further. By “complexity” they mean “what we don’t understand or find difficult to understand”—the results of categories 1 and 2 combined with “non-linearity,” which means that “a change in just one component of a system can lead to a surprising and disproportionate effect elsewhere.” One might suppose that this would lead our authors to worry that “global governance” might well prove a hopeless task. One would be mistaken. For example, “Many Asian countries reacted quickly” to the pandemic “because they were prepared logistically and organizationally,” thanks to the previous SARS epidemic, to say nothing (which is exactly what they do say) about the lack of civil liberty under those many regimes. 

How would global governance work? Planning, my boy, planning. In terms of economics, we already know that because “wars destroy capital while pandemics do not” economies rebound faster in the aftermath of wars, as people rebuild their cities and factories. When, at the beginning of the pandemic, “governments worldwide made the deliberate decision to shut down much of their respective economies”—a choice the authors endorse because a higher death rate would injure economic life even more—this caused “an abrupt and unsolicited return to a form of relative autarky, with every nation trying to move towards certain forms of self-sufficiency” at the cost of “a reduction in national and global output,” especially in such countries as the United States, where the ‘service sector’ (more seriously injured by policies of ‘social distancing’ than any other) provides 80% of the jobs. “Such a scenario will almost inevitably lead to a collapse in investment among business and a surge in precautionary saving among consumers, with fallout in the entire global economy through capital flight, the rapid and uncertain movement of large amounts of money out of a country, which tends to exacerbate economic crises.” Additionally, the pandemic will accelerate replacement of jobs with machines; while this normally boosts employment in the long run, the velocity of the current shift will lead to greater dislocations, especially among “low-income workers in routine jobs.” The rich may or may not get richer, but the poor will get poorer.

Crucial to our authors’ ‘globalization’ argument is their need to link the global pandemic to another main ‘globalist’ talking point, climate change. Originally, internationalists advocated world government as a cure for war, but now that nuclear weapons have made world wars considerably less palatable to ambitious rulers, climate change has taken its place. “The deep disruption caused by COVID-19 globally has offered societies an enforced pause to reflect on what is truly of value. With the economic emergency responses to the pandemic now in place, the opportunity can be seized to make the kind of institutional changes and policy choices that will put economies on a new path towards a fairer, greener future.” This in turn “will require”—notice the imperative language—a “shift in the mindset of world leaders”—no longer merely statesmen—to “place greater focus and priority on the well-being of all citizens and the planet.” This means a concurrent shift in the “metrics” by which those “leaders” measure “progress”—specifically, a shift from emphasis on quantitative, material well-being measured by ‘gross domestic product’ (now much too gross and much too domestic—indeed, a form of “tyranny”) toward such ‘quality of life’ activities as “the care economy” (childcare, eldercare), education, and medicine. In keeping with the rhetoric of ‘progress,’ our authors identify “forward-looking countries” as those which “prioritize a more inclusive and sustainable approach to managing and measuring their economies, one that also drives job growth, improvement in living standards and safeguards the planet.” 

This is all very well for countries that can afford it, our authors remark, but what about “emerging and developing economies”? “Most of them don’t have the fiscal space required to react to the pandemic shock.” This may well lead to a scenario that any respectable member of the World Economic Forum well might dread: politicians might push central banks into finance “major public projects, such as an infrastructure or green investment fund”—policies leading to huge financial deficits as governments give the banks’ money to their constituents and the consequent “uncontrollable inflation” as governments aim at paying for those expenditures with devalued money. Even in the affluent countries, politicians will be tempted to pursue such policies. If they occur in the United States the dollar itself—long the most trusted currency in the world and the lynchpin of the American economy as it has interacted with the rest of the world—could result in “a much reduced geopolitical role or higher taxation, or both” and more, the possible abandonment of the dollar as the world’s dominant currency. 

“To a large extent, US global credibility also depends on geopolitics and the appeal of its social model.” Turning next to the “societal reset,” our authors cite the criticisms of governing institutions throughout the world, very much including the United States, and the exacerbation of social problems in the poorer countries. Countries that have fared better in the pandemic were (sure enough) those for whom “inclusivity, solidarity, and trust” are “core values.” In less hazy terms, that means “cost-effective and inclusive healthcare” systems, bureaucratic preparation, “rapid and decisive decisions,” and “citizens” (one would not wish to say ‘subjects’) who “have confidence in both the leadership and the information they provide” (not to be stigmatized as ‘propaganda’). Therefore, our authors rather breathlessly anticipate a “post-pandemic era” characterized by “massive wealth redistribution, from the rich to the poor and from capital to labor,” the “death knell of neoliberalism” which favors “competition over solidarity, creative destruction over government intervention and economic growth over social welfare.” “It is no coincidence,” they intone, “that the two countries that over the past few years embraced the policies of neoliberalism with most fervor—the US and the UK—are among those that suffered the most casualties during the pandemic.” Ah yes, the frightful Reagan and Thatcher: into the dustbin of History with them! “Massive social turmoil” is in the future of such malefactor societies, and they deserve it. 

Help is on the way. “One of the great lessons of the past five centuries in Europe and America is this: acute crises contribute to boosting the power of the state.” This time, too, “governments will most likely, but with different degrees of intensity, decide that it’s in the best interests of society to rewrite some of the rules of the game and permanently increase their role,” “as happened in the 1930s.” They will move toward “a broader, if not universal, provision of social assistance, social insurance, healthcare and basic quality services” and toward “enhanced protection for workers and for those currently most vulnerable.” In particular, “the COVID-19 crisis has laid bare the inadequate state of most national health systems.” One might ask, “inadequate” for what? An worldwide emergency—that is, a thing by definition insusceptible to fully effective national responses. And what might meet such an international or global crisis other than “improved global governance”? Our authors hope that you will answer, “Nothing!” and take your bearings from precisely the global crisis instead of the routine national and even regional or local crises. 

Hence their central “reset,” the “geopolitical reset.” In this century, “the determining element of geopolitical instability is the progressive rebalancing from the West to the East,” particularly the confrontation between the “rising power,” China, and the “ruling power,” the United States. The “progressive disengagement” of the United States from the world additionally causes countries which had relied on the United States for such “global public goods” as defense of sea lanes and counterterrorism “to tend to their own backyards themselves.” “The 21st century will most likely be an era devoid of an absolute hegemon”; “as a result, power and influence will be redistributed chaotically and in some cases grudgingly.”

Economic globalization will continue, although the pandemic will slow and even reverse it for a time. Our authors instead maintain that economic globalization, political democracy, and the nation state are “mutually irreconcilable.” One of them will need to go, and it isn’t hard to anticipate which one they would like to kiss goodbye. “The rise of nationalism” is their bugbear, “global governance” their preference. As they define it, global governance isn’t exactly equivalent to a world government, at least not yet. Global governance is “the process of cooperation among transnational actors aimed at providing responses to global problems,” encompassing “the totality of institutions, policies, norms, procedures and initiative through which nation states try to bring more predictability and stability to their responses to transnational challenges”—an “effort bound to be toothless without the cooperation of national governments and their ability to act and legislate to support their aims.” That is, global government resembles the law of nations, except that “transnational actors” must seek to bring national actors into line with what transnationalists want to do. For this, the pandemic (added to climate change) may prove a useful crisis, as “COVID-19 has reminded us that the biggest problems we face are global in nature,” yet it hasn’t “triggered a set of measures coordinated globally,” but has instead done the opposite: “a stream of border closures, restrictions in international travel and trade introduced almost without any coordination, the frequent interruption of medical supply distribution and the ensuing competition for resources.” “In a functioning global governance network, nations should have come together to fight a global and coordinated ‘war’ against the pandemic” but the existing system “failed, proving either non-existent or dysfunctional.” Alas, the authors sigh, “the United Nations organization has no power to compel information sharing or enforce pandemic preparedness.” 

You can tell that a contemporary political writer is getting desperate when he reaches for analogies to quantum mechanics. Supposedly, the quantum mechanics model teaches us that when it comes to political principles and regimes, “there isn’t a ‘right’ view and a ‘wrong’ view, but different and often diverging interpretations that frequently correlate with the origin, culture, and personal history of those who profess them.” That is, nature as seen through the lens of quantum mechanics yields moral and cultural relativism in world politics. You may “think that observation and measurement define an ‘objective’ opinion, but the micro-world of atoms and particles (like the macro-world of geopolitics) is governed by the strange rules of quantum mechanics in which two different observers are entitled to their own opinion (this is called a ‘superposition’: ‘particles can be in several places or states at once’).” Therefore, “a ‘Chinese’ view and a ‘US’ view can co-exist, together with multiple other views along that continuum—all of them real!” 

What an entertaining sophistry! I exclaim, demonstrating that I too can deploy exclamation points. If nation-states are like subatomic particles, then they too should be capable of being in several places or states at once. But they’re not. A nation-state has borders over which it is sovereign. Those borders may change but they scarcely act as subatomic particles act, or seem to act, depending upon the position of the observer. What our authors could argue to make their argument coherent, if still dubious, is this: habits of mind and heart generally shared in one regime—or, more broadly, in one civilization—often differ radically from habits of heart and mind generally shared in another; the differences between those sets of habits may differ so radically that citizens or subjects within those regimes may form far different opinions concerning moral and political phenomena. Their divergent opinions are indeed equally ‘real’ in the sense that they are sincerely and deeply held. This reality must be taken into account by statesmen—sorry, ‘global leaders.’ But that doesn’t mean that “two different observers are entitled to their own opinion.” It only means that each does in fact have one.

As with almost every political appeal to moral or cultural relativism, our authors’ quantum-mechanics jive covers their own political agendum. Sure enough, a few pages after instructing us on modern physics’ correlation to political science we read: “Wealthier countries ignore the tragedy unfolding in fragile and failing countries at their peril.” A consistent quantum mechanist in politics would add, “or not.” But now our authors have discovered themselves entitled to make such judgments despite their self-alleged incapacity to do so.

Indeed, they insist on it. Both the pandemic and climate change amount to “existential threats to humankind”—objectively speaking, in their opinion. They share five attributes: first, “they are known…systemic risks that propagate very fast in our interconnected world and, in so doing, amplify other risks from different categories; second, “they are non-linear, meaning that beyond a certain threshold, or tipping point, they can exercise catastrophic effects” regionally or globally; third, “the probabilities and distribution of their impacts are very hard, if not impossible to measure”; fourth, and crucially for the ‘globalist’ argument, “they are global in nature and therefore can only be properly addressed in a globally coordinated fashion”; fifth, “they affect disproportionately the already most vulnerable countries and segments of the population.” Finally, both are tied to worldwide population growth, as crowding facilitates viral contagion and larger populations expend more of the pollutants that are said to contribute significantly to global warming. To combat both, “it will be incumbent on us all to rethink our relationship with nature and question why we have become so alienated from it.”

I can answer that last one. We have become alienated from nature because nature can be harsh, with or without global warming. The same science that has theorized quantum mechanics was inaugurated as an effort to conquer nature for the relief of man’s estate—deemed to be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short by one of modern science’s earliest advocates. One need not take so extreme a view, or project so optimistic a solution, to see the point. 

But to return to our authors. They propose four main preliminary approaches to these troubles. “Enlightened leadership” will “make ‘good use’ of the pandemic by not letting the crisis go to waste.” They “may want to take advantage of the shock inflicted by the pandemic to implement long-lasting and wider environmental changes”—clearly the intention behind this book. They will emphasize that “we ignore science and expertise at our peril”; that is, we should be more compliant with policies proposed and enforced by people like our authors. This means we must change our “behavior,” acknowledging that we have “no choice but to adopt ‘greener living.'” We should applaud “the motivation for change” which has been “emboldened” by the pandemic, “trigger[ing] new tools and strategies in terms of social activism.” How those “tools” differ from those familiar to anyone who recalls the ‘Movement’ politics of the 1960s remains unclear. However, unlike many on the old New Left, and many in the environmentalist movement, our authors would have us embrace technology, especially contact. But will technology turn into a tool of social and political oppression, as it has done in many of those regimes whose ‘points of view’ (we’ve been assured) are entitled to their own opinions? “It is for those who govern and each of us personally to control and harness the benefits of technology without sacrificing our individual and collective values and freedoms,” they intone, neglecting to suggest how they, and we, might go about doing that. They hurry on to the next level, the “Micro Reset.”

Our authors define “micro” institutions as those governing business and industry. The message is simple: Get on board, or fail. Forget about “a return to business as usual. This won’t happen because it can’t happen.” For capitalists, “the key issue will be to find the apposite balance between what functioned before and what is needed now to prosper in the new normal.” More specifically, this means accelerating the trend toward “stakeholder capitalism,” a term that evidently denotes not simply concern for the demands of consumers and of workers but for the those of climate change activists, advocates of “gender diversity,” and similar groups self-classified as proponents of social justice (typically defined as social egalitarianism). “The pandemic leaves no doubt in boardrooms that the absence” of such considerations “has the potential to destroy substantial value and even threaten the viability of a business” through the “reputational cost” of lawsuits and boycotts. “The ‘price’ of not doing so will be too high in terms of the wrath of activists, both activist investors and social activists.” If sufficiently frightened by the scarecrow of activism, capitalists too can be deployed in cooperation with rather than in opposition to the global governors; both ‘sides’ will work (intentionally or not) at the service of globalists.

As Tocqueville taught his readers nearly two centuries ago, such ‘intermediate’ institutions as townships and counties can inhibit the ambitions of statist centralizers and maintain the spirit of liberty among citizens. On the level of globalism, nation-states serve that function, but so do many capitalist institutions, cities, and universities. Our authors therefore applaud what they take to be the likelihood of de-urbanization in the pandemic’s wake, as companies shift their employees from working in offices to working at home. This will result in “far fewer tenants to rent empty office buildings,” “puncturing the global real estate bubble that [has] been years in the making” and bringing much of the residential real estate market in cities down with it. Same for universities (“particularly the expensive ones in the Anglo-Saxon world”): they, too, “will have to alter their business model or go bankrupt because COVID-19 has made it obsolete.” Why pay “the same high tuition for [the] virtual education” to which universities have resorted? Sure, the online model of education, or some hybrid form resulting from mating it with in-person education, “has the disadvantage of erasing a large aspect of social life and personal interactions on a campus.” Too bad, but that’s the way it will be. The noteworthy, if unstated, theme here is ‘divide and conquer.’ The fewer social “interactions” at work and at school and the more social life becomes ‘virtual.’ the less real resistance to global governance there can be. Traditional institutions capable of resisting globalism will weaken, and flash mobs organized by online agitators won’t stand up for long against well-organized, trained law enforcement officers—especially if they learn to talk the talk of ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion’ which are becoming the (largely rhetorical) price of doing real business.

Finally, the “individual reset.” Whereas natural disasters usually “bring people together,” pandemics “drive them apart.” “Psychologically, the most important consequence of the pandemic is to generate a phenomenal amount of uncertainty that often becomes a source of angst,” then shame, as we hesitate to step up and help one another for fear of infection. “Often, the fear of death ends up overriding all other human emotions.” Fueled by such fear, false rumors and conspiracy theories erode social trust. But this too is only one more crisis not to be wasted, as it invites a debate over what the common good is. For example, in the United States and Britain—those two bastions of the ‘neoliberalism’ our authors earlier scorned—there are persons who argue that recessions kill people as surely as diseases do, and that governments should not be too quick to shut down economic activity in an attempt to control the coronavirus. Ah, yes, our authors riposte, “in the US, recessions do indeed kill a lot of people because the absence of limited nature of any social safety net makes them life-threatening.” And so we are left with what is “ultimately a moral choice about whether to prioritize the qualities of individualism or those that favor the destiny of the community.” Individuals, too, stand in the way of global governance. Community “destiny” ‘must’—as a matter of both historical and moral necessity—take precedence. From complacency about social life in workplaces and schools, our authors now veer toward an endorsement of sociality. “We are social animals for whom the many minor and often nonverbal clues that normally occur during physical social interactions are vital in terms of communication and mutual understanding”; without such communicative clues, our brain is “simply overwhelm[ed], and “we get the feeling of being drained of energy and left with a sense of profound dissatisfaction,” which “in turn negatively affects our sense of mental well-being.” This points to a “reset” of sociality, away from workplaces and schools—let alone the civil associations of self-government Tocqueville admired in America—towards a bureaucratized society, its global governors well out of the reach of its subjects, in which sociality is somehow experienced through government-sponsored social welfare programs. It will be called a worldwide ‘social democracy’ but it will be a socialist oligarchy. 

In preparation for this new order, ‘we’ shouldn’t let the crisis go to waste. “Offering as it did the gifts of more time, greater stillness, more solitude (even if an excess of the latter sometimes resulted in loneliness), the pandemic provided an opportunity to think more deeply about who we are, what really matters and what we want, both as individuals and as a society.” Alone, we can undergo a “period of enforced collective reflection”—a very fine turn of phrase, indeed, for connoisseurs of adroit self-contradiction. And what shall ‘we’ think about? Our authors stand ready with helpful suggestions: “Do we know what is important? Are we too selfish and overfocused on ourselves? Do we give too great a priority and excessive time to our career? Are we slaves to consumerism?” Having already pointed us toward their preferred answers, Mssrs. Schwab and Malleret hit their ‘environmentalist’ key: “One clear message has emerged from this: nature is a formidable antidote to many of today’s ills.” “Nature makes us feel good.” Very well then, as the Sixties Left once insisted, ‘If it feels good, do it.’ Forward with global governance in the name of climate protection.

“We need to change; we should change. But can we?” “Simply put, will we put into motion the Great Reset?” The Great Reset is “about making the world less divisive, less polluting, less destructive, more inclusive, more equitable and fairer than we left it in the pre-pandemic era.” And what can ‘we’ do to effect this consummation so devoutly to be wished? “The absolute prerequisite for a proper reset is greater collaboration and cooperation within and between countries.” Without “shared intentionality” to “act together towards a common goal” we “simply cannot progress.” In the face of the prospect of a world “even more divided, nationalistic and prone to conflicts than it is today,” ‘we’ have “an opportunity to embed greater societal equality and sustainability into the recovery, accelerating rather than delaying progress towards the 2030 Sustainable Development Goals and unleashing a new era of prosperity.” For those so benighted as not to know what the “Goals” are, suffice it to say that they were adopted by the United Nations in 2015 (during the Obama administration) and center on the rather ambitious goal of ending poverty in the world.

Our authors are confident that this can be done because “a multitude of surveys conclude that we collectively desire change,” including “international surveys finding that a large majority of citizens around the world want the economic recovery from the corona crisis to prioritize climate change and to support a green recovery.” Quite apart from the question of how effective wishful thinking is likely to be, this raises a problem our authors do not consider. What “international survey” of public opinion could register public opinion in, say, China, Russia, or any of the other illiberal oligarchies? And if regimes still matter, where does that leave the claim that all ‘opinions,’ like all subatomic particles, are entitled to vibrate with equal velocity? And if they are, where does that leave this rather dodgy ‘we’ for which our authors so confidently speak?