Livy and the Heroes of Early Rome

A Roman historian traces the role of moral character in the rise and fall of republics

According to Roman historian Livy, the Roman Republic fell because of a degredation of moral character. “Capriccio with ruins of the Roman Forum,” circa 1634, by Claude Lorrain. Art Gallery of South Australia. (Public Domain)

There’s a good deal of talk today, by people who imagine themselves to be serious thinkers, about doing away with the U.S. Constitution in favor of establishing a more “just” government. What would such a utopian polity look like? In the imaginations of radicals, it all sounds great, though history’s track record of human flourishing in cases where such sweeping overhauls have occurred is, to put it mildly, not great.

In an age when our commonwealth is crumbling, it’s instructive to take the example of another political institution that has long served as a model for American aspirations: Rome. The Roman Republic lasted for nearly 500 years because its institutions were profoundly conservative, even as its leaders took a pragmatic attitude that adapted ancient customs to the needs of the present. But how, more specifically, did Rome achieve such glorious heights, and why did it fall? For the great historian and super-patriot Livy, the answer was simple: moral character.

A (Very) Long History

Born in around 60 B.C. in modern-day Padua, Italy, Titus Livius, or Livy, lived through one of the most tumultuous periods in world history: Julius Caesar’s assassination, the civil wars of the late republic, and Rome’s transition to empire. Livy moved to the eternal city around the time that Octavius (Augustus) defeated Mark Antony. Unlike the poets Virgil and Horace, who championed the new autocracy, Livy was more pessimistic. He enjoyed the emperor’s patronage and the newfound political stability but felt that the current age was a degenerate one and began extolling, instead, the virtuous heroes of Rome’s republican past.

The masterwork that resulted from this ambition, “From the Founding of the City” (Ab Urbe Condita), is the longest history ever written by a single man prior to modern times. In its original state, it chronicled the entire 700-year life of Rome up to his own day, from its beginning in shepherd huts in 753 B.C. to its domination over the Mediterranean region. It was so vast that poet Martial jested he needed an abridged version, since his library couldn’t fit all the volumes.

Much of Livy’s history was lost during the Middle Ages, and only about a quarter of his massive tome is extant—35 books out of an initial 142. Of the surviving work, the most influential portions have been the first 10 books recounting the semi-mythical figures of Rome’s first 400 years. The stories are famous: the brothers Romulus and Remus, who were raised by a she-wolf and quarreled over where to establish their new city; Horatius Cocles, who singlehandedly defended the Pons Sublicius bridge against an Etruscan army led by Lars Porsenna; Coriolanus, the exiled general who led a neighboring tribe to march on his own city, but was turned back by a weeping wife and mother; the old patricians who, when Rome was about to be sacked by the Gauls, refused to abandon their city, dressed in their finest robes, and waited in their villas “like statues” to meet their deaths in stoic fashion.

These legends all comprise variations on a theme: Hard times make tough men, and glory can only be achieved through hardihood, sacrifice, and a devotion to public duty. Livy’s history was an instant success and quickly became the standard canonical version, overshadowing prior sources he drew upon that ceased to be copied.

From America’s beginnings, the founders self-consciously drew inspiration from early Rome in establishing their own fledgling republic. George Washington was known as the “American Cincinnatus,” referring to the former consul who left his small farm to defend his country, defeated Rome’s enemies, and then relinquished his power and returned to his plow. Alexander Hamilton and other political writers penned pamphlets under pseudonyms such as “Publius” and “Cato.” It’s almost entirely thanks to Livy that the model of Roman republican virtue has captured the imagination of readers for two millennia.

A Mirror of Decline

In our own times, comparisons with the late Roman republic abound: the erosion of discipline and principle, the abandonment of customs, the lax morals—all these themes can be found in Livy. At the heart of everything, he says, is the relationship between luxury and vice. It’s an old idea, but Livy chronicles the historical process by which “manifold amusements have led to people’s obsession with ruining themselves and with consuming all else through excess and self-indulgence.”

In Book 39, he even dates the beginning of the end to a specific year: 187 B.C., when the consul Gnaeus Manlius Vulso was awarded a triumph after defeating the Galatians of Asia Minor. At this time, “the beginnings of foreign luxury were imported into Rome by the army of Asia.” These soldiers brought with them “bronze couches, expensive bedspreads, tapestries,” and other “sumptuous furniture.” Vulso’s dinner parties were accompanied by “lutenists” and “harpists,” and banquets “began to be laid on with greater elaboration and at greater expense.”

Livy then mentions a detail that bears a striking resemblance to our generation: “it was then that the cook, who had been to the ancient Romans the least valuable of slaves ... began to be highly valued, and what had been a mere service came to be regarded as an art.” One is reminded today of the rise of celebrity chefs and the disproportionate number of shows devoted to preparing extravagant dishes.

Lest one think, though, that we’re the only ones addicted to vicarious entertainments, Livy also highlights the imperial Roman taste for gladiatorial combats and chariot races. In the past, great Romans took up the sword in moments of crisis and rode the chariots themselves. But by the imperial age, the descendants of heroes watched lesser men do these things for sport and empty honors. The parallels with Hollywood and the NFL, our versions of the Circus Maximus and Colosseum, couldn’t be more obvious.

Moral Regeneration

Livy’s preface to his history is pessimistic about whether the vices of his own age could be remedied. He does suggest, though, that reading history can help to better people’s private character and help mend public corruption.

“The special and salutary benefit from the study of history,” he writes, “is to behold evidence of every sort of behavior set forth as on a splendid memorial; from it you may select for yourself and for your country what to emulate, from it what to avoid, whether basely begun or basely concluded.”

The heroes exemplified in the early republic didn’t become virtuous automatically; their character was shaped by constant vigilance. He acknowledged that these early legends may be “pleasing poetic fictions,” but whether real or not, they still had something to teach. Livy admonishes his readers to pay close attention to how they lived, their moral principles, and the leadership that led to the flourishing of “the world’s mightiest empire, second only to the power of the gods.”

Livy’s work is a literary monument to the actual, ruined monuments of an extinct civilization. It remains both a cautionary tale and a source of inspiration for our own troubled times.