Five Men and Pompey: A Series of Dramatic Portraits

In Short

This book is a series of six linked dramatic monologues that dramatize the final years of the Roman Republic. Through the voices of Sertorius, Lucullus, Crassus, Cicero, Caesar, and Pompey, the work examines the transition from a governing body of citizens to an empire ruled by individual power. By focusing on the personal regrets and philosophical justifications of these historical figures, the writing elevates dry political history into a series of intimate, tragic character studies that highlight the cost of power and the persistence of failed ideals.

The Story

The narrative arc begins in the twilight of the Republic, as seen through the eyes of the rebel Sertorius in 72 B.C. He stands in his camp, realizing that his vision of a restored Republic is being undermined by his own treacherous subordinates. Even as he faces his assassination, he recognizes that his death marks the end of the old order, leaving the path open for the rise of younger, more destructive men.

The focus then shifts to the decadence of 59 B.C., where the former conqueror Lucullus reconciles his past military glory with his present life as a cynical, gourmet recluse. He observes the rising stars of the era, Pompey and Cicero, with a bitter detachment, finding more meaning in his cherry orchards than in the hollow victories of the Senate. This sense of impending doom deepens with Crassus’s campaign in Parthia in 53 B.C. Trapped in a desert, facing certain death, Crassus reflects on the futility of his greed and the loss of his son, acknowledging that his own failure is simply a prelude to Rome’s eventual transformation.

As the civil war between Caesar and Pompey becomes inevitable in 49–48 B.C., Cicero writes to his friend Atticus, torn between his loyalty to the dying Republic and the necessity of choosing a side in a conflict he despises. He realizes that the dream of a free Rome is dissolving into a struggle of personal power, yet he remains shackled to the political machinery he helped build. Meanwhile, Caesar receives letters urging him to compromise, but he recognizes that the political systems of Rome have become a trap. He chooses to march, viewing his actions as a harsh necessity to heal a fractured land, even as he mourns the loss of his youthful friendships.

The sequence concludes with the defeated Pompey after the Battle of Pharsalia. He acknowledges that Caesar has won the world but suggests that both men were ultimately pawns of fate. Pompey looks toward a future where Caesar’s empire will likely be dismantled by lesser men, leaving behind only the "vision invincible" of a Republic that can never be truly captured. The arc closes on a note of stark resignation: the old world is dead, and the era of the individual conqueror has begun, leaving the protagonists to face their private ends against the backdrop of an irreversible historical shift.

How It Unfolds

The betrayal of Sertorius Sertorius reflects on twelve years of struggle to build a senate and schools in Spain, only to be murdered by his own treacherous officers. As he dies, he realizes his dream of restoring the Republic has vanished, leaving the field clear for younger, more ambitious leaders.

The bitterness of Lucullus Lucullus dines in the Apollo room, nursing his resentment toward the political maneuvering of his peers. He retreats into the comfort of his orchards and wine, recognizing that the "old lion" of Rome has been replaced by the sordid squabbles of the new generation.

The doom of Crassus Crassus finds himself trapped in the Parthian desert, facing a hopeless military disaster and the death of his son. He accepts that his life of excess was a failure, admitting that while he perishes, Rome will continue to march on through other, more capable hands.

The hesitation of Cicero Cicero attempts to write a letter to Atticus while struggling with the moral impossibility of choosing between Caesar and Pompey. He confesses his hatred for the war and his despair at seeing the Republic perish, yet he remains unable to escape the political vacuum he inhabits.

The decision of Caesar Caesar reviews urgent pleas to resign his command and return to Rome as a private citizen. He concludes that his enemies intend to destroy him, deciding that he must march on Ariminum to secure his future and, in his view, order the state.

The defeat of Pompey Pompey reflects on the finality of his defeat at Pharsalia and the inevitable decline of the Roman state. He accepts his fate with dignity, viewing his life as a climb up a "ladder of swords" that leads only to the silence of history.

The People

The figures in these portraits are defined by their internal conflicts between their public reputations and their private disillusionment. Sertorius is a tragic idealist who clings to the memory of a lost love and a lost Republic, ultimately dying at the hands of those he failed to lead. Lucullus represents the disillusioned veteran, trading the violence of the battlefield for the aesthetic refuge of his gardens, watching with sardonic distance as his peers repeat his mistakes. Crassus is the personification of hubris meeting its match; his realization of his own "wooden sword" highlights the vanity of his massive wealth. Cicero serves as the intellectual conscience of the book, a man who sees the truth of the decline but is trapped by his own legalistic nature and attachment to a decaying institution. Caesar appears as the pragmatic, hardened leader who justifies his march toward tyranny as a painful necessity for a broken land. Finally, Pompey acts as the stoic contrast, a man who accepts the futility of his triumph and recognizes that the "ladder of swords" provides no lasting peace for the individual or the state.

In Its Own Voice

"Pompey, Pompey, chief of pride, / Hero and lord of Rome! / You ride to a gallant triumph now, / Gay as the green and fruitful bough; / But the bough will be withered and dry enow / When you ride for the last time home!"

Sertorius offers this grim prophecy to his rival, foretelling the inevitable hollowness of Pompey’s future glory.

"I thought of love as a crooked knife, / As a soft and passionate lord; / Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wine / And the gold cups clashed on the board. / But my love came like a blast of cold, / A straight, clean, sword."

Lucullus contrasts his shallow youthful perceptions of love with the singular, defining memory of his late wife.

"Stretching straight from the viewless Pit, / To the skies that are shamed because of it, / Lit with a blue and hungry fire, / That blasts like the breath of fulfilled Desire, / Glory and Shame in its secret hoards, / It stands supreme, the Ladder of Swords!"

Pompey describes the violent, upward struggle of the Roman elite, a climb that leads to both absolute power and utter destruction.

What It's Really About

The work is a meditation on the cost of political ambition and the inevitability of institutional decay. It argues that empires are not built on virtue but on a "ladder of swords"—a cycle of violence that consumes even those who think they are masters of their fate. The protagonists are haunted by the "vision invincible" of the Republic, a concept that exists as a fading, ethereal ideal while the reality of their lives is defined by betrayal, blood, and the pursuit of power. The book asks whether a society can survive when its leaders prioritize their own survival over the collective good, suggesting that the tragedy of Rome is a mirror for the fragility of any civilization built on conquest.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy historical drama will find this book a moving, if melancholic, experience. It is written in a style that prizes atmosphere and emotional resonance over strictly factual recitation, making it feel less like a dry textbook and more like a series of stage plays performed in the dark. The language is sharp, evocative, and deeply rhythmic, capturing the specific, weary voices of men who know they are witnessing the end of an era.

Because it was written in 1915, the prose carries a certain formal, elevated cadence that is typical of early twentieth-century literature. Modern readers might find the references to specific ancient Roman political figures require a cursory background knowledge to fully appreciate the stakes, but the central themes of power and moral compromise are universal. There is a distinct, somber beauty in these portraits—a sense of the world teetering on the edge of a new age. It is a slim, focused volume, perfect for those who want to understand the feeling of history rather than just its dates. It leaves you with the haunting image of a man looking back at his own life and finding only the wreckage of a dream that was never truly his to hold.