Cicero on dictatorship

Cicero had mixed feelings about dictators. The great Roman orator and writer allowed that a strongman might be necessary in emergencies. “Just as he who sails, when the sea suddenly begins to become rough, and he who is ill with burdensome affliction, cry out for the aid of one man, so while our people in peace and with regard to domestic affairs rule themselves and menace, reject, admonish, and appeal against their own magistrates, in war they submit to them as to a king; for there is more strength in safety than in caprice. Indeed, in more serious war we have even consented to be in the power of a single magistrate having sole command without colleague.”

The Roman republic had resorted to dictators scores of times by Cicero’s day, but the practice had fallen into disuse after the Second Punic War, around 200 BCE, a century before Cicero’s birth. It was revived by Sulla amid a civil war in the 80s BCE. As dictators were supposed to do, Sulla relinquished his extraordinary powers once the emergency that justified them ended.

Julius Caesar reprised Sulla’s revival a generation later. A generation of ordinary Romans, that is. The leadership was more precarious and turned over more rapidly. Caesar decided to put an end to this rotation and made himself not merely dictator but dictator perpetuo – perpetual dictator. His design didn’t work. Alarmed by Caesar’s power, Brutus and others assassinated him weeks later.

Cicero wasn’t part of the Brutus conspiracy. He was more thinker than doer. Yet he was relieved that the doers had done the deed. He didn’t want to see the republic destroyed, which Caesar was in the process of doing.

His relief brought him blame from Caesar’s friends. Cicero sought refuge among the many who shared his anti-dictator feelings. He defended himself against his accusers, especially Mark Antony. “If it is a crime to have wished that Cæsar should be slain—which you accuse me of having wished—is it a crime also to have rejoiced at his death?” he said in one of a series of speeches against Antony. “For what is the difference between a man who has advised an action, and one who has approved of it? Or what does it signify whether I wished it to be done, or rejoice that it has been done? Is there any one then, except you yourself and those men who wished him to become a king, who was unwilling that that deed should be done, or who disapproved of it after it was done? All men, therefore, are guilty as far as this goes. In truth, all good men, as far as it depended on them, bore a part in the slaying of Cæsar. Some did not know how to contrive it, some had not courage for it, some had no opportunity—every one had the inclination.”

Cicero’s speeches saved neither himself nor the Roman republic. Antony arranged Cicero’s assassination, and then Octavian, named as heir in Caesar’s will, made himself emperor with the name Augustus.

All this was ancient history when the framers of the Constitution met in Philadelphia in 1787 to create a new government for the United States. Yet it was history the delegates knew well. And when they crafted Article II, defining the presidency, they took pains to keep the occupants of the office from getting dictatorial ideas. Presidents were to be chosen by a process that filtered popular passions of the kind that might allow a man to make himself dictator. The people would choose not the president but rather electors who would do the choosing. Presidents could not make laws, which were the work of Congress. Presidents could not pass judgments, which were left to the courts. A president could veto acts of Congress, but the veto could be overridden by a supermajority. Important presidential appointments had to be confirmed by the Senate. Likewise treaties negotiated by presidents with foreign countries.

The framers’ worries were excessive. Or so it seemed for two centuries. The retirement of George Washington after two terms established a precedent that kept incumbents from imagining themselves president-for-life. And the checks and balances in the Constitution did what the label denoted – checking a president’s ambition and balancing his powers with those of the other branches of the government.

How much Donald Trump knows about Roman history is unclear. But he broached the subject of dictators when, during the campaign of 2024, he was urged to deny that he would abuse power if reelected. “I only want to be a dictator for one day,” Trump replied.

Elaborating, he said he would issue strong executive orders on the first day of his second term. And then he would revert to being a regular president.

Trump has been president for more than a month. Executive orders continue to emanate from the White House. He hasn’t said whether he now considers his day one to have constituted a dictatorship, but he hasn’t backed away from the authority he claimed on that day.

Some of Trump’s supporters cheered when he talked of a dictatorship. Others said it was a joke and not to be taken seriously.

Another explanation is that it was a trial balloon. The balloon is still in the air. Only now are Trump’s orders hitting the guardrails erected by the framers of the Constitution. Lawsuits are being filed against his executive orders. If the guardrails hold firm – if the courts, to cite the most important guardrail, strike down Trump’s orders and he accepts their verdicts – then the talk of a Trump dictatorship will appear to have been excessive and alarmist.

And Cicero can go back to sleep.