The Splendor of Decline: Trump and Diocletian as Mirrors of Imperial End

Exclusive. History, as Livy knew well, should not only educate, but also warn. Every civilization that has reached its peak inevitably goes through a phase of obscuration - a historical twilight, when the old meanings still sound, but no longer penetrate the heart of the people; when the system still functions, but the soul loses the ability to fill it. This is the time when empires begin to celebrate themselves instead of serving a higher ideal. In such an era, figures who are codifiers of decline come to the fore.

Diocletian: Other Historical Parallels

Such was the figure Diocletian became in late Rome. And, with great historical probability, so is Donald Trump in the era of late America. This essay is an attempt to look at them not as separate biographies, but as milestones of a civilizational phase when power still amazes, but wisdom has already fallen silent.

One of the most radical changes brought about by the ruler Diocletian was not a reorganization of the provinces or fiscal centralization, but something much more subtle and profound—a transformation of the very nature of imperial power, its ontological code. Posing as a successor to the Roman tradition, Diocletian actually put an end to the principate, creating something new and at the same time alien—the dominant. And if we ask ourselves who was the first “Roman barbarian” in the sense of spirit, not blood, then the answer may sound unexpected: the one who put on the toga of the emperor, but looked at Rome with the eyes of a barbarian.

The Principate was a delicate compromise of Octavian Augustus with the memory of the republic: supranational power in the hands of one person, but the preservation of the Senate, the magistracies, and the popular assembly - with the theater of tradition that nurtured faith in succession. The emperor was not above, but in spite of the state, not a hegemon, but "first among equals" - princeps inter pares. Here it is appropriate to recall Cicero: "respublica res populi est", that is, "the state is the business of the people". Under the dominant, it became "the business of one deified person".

And in this context, it is striking how much a similar vector is beginning to be seen in American history. If the principate in Rome was a post-republican form that retained its aura, then the United States had its own version of it - the president as a symbol of unity, limited by institutions, the Constitution, traditions. The American leader was yesterday the "first citizen", today the "great builder", and tomorrow the "only one who can save the nation". What does this look like?

Donald Trump enters the scene - and in him, paradoxically, the features of both Caesar and Dominus are combined. His charisma is television, his authority is plebiscite, his attitude towards opponents is "Byzantine": contemptuous and at the same time condescending and punitive. The people are now not sovereign, but an audience. State institutions? They exist, of course, but as "those presbyters who sing the liturgy without faith, so as not to spoil the course of traditions."

The irony of history is that America today, like late Rome, retains all the trappings of a republic—the Senate, the Constitution, the separation of powers—but there is less and less faith in them. They have become a decoration, a pleasant antiquity, mentioned in festive speeches. But, as Tacitus wrote, “the more magnificent the external decoration, the more often it conceals the inner emptiness.”

America still exists, as Rome did after Diocletian. But has it remained itself? Is it still a res publica, or is it only imperium sine anima—power without a soul?

Both in Rome and in contemporary US political practice, the central question for the state has always been the same: does power serve the people, or does the people become merely a backdrop for rule? This question is not just for political theory textbooks; it is at the heart of the transition from principate to dominion in Rome and from classical democracy to leader-led populism in the American context.

During the Roman Principate, the emperor was not only a military and political leader, but also a model of civic balance. Augustus, the first emperor to establish this institution, abandoned the titles of “rex” or “dominus” in an attempt to maintain a republican veneer of modest “first among equals.” This was a subtle political tactic, as the emperor’s public displays of grandeur were minimal, and his power itself was based on consensus with the senate, the popular assembly, and even the law.

These were just expressions of restraint, aimed at affirming the idea that the emperor's power rested on legitimacy and popular consensus, not on divine right or force. At a time when politicians declared "service," it still had a certain moral connotation that runs counter to everything we can see today.

Diocletian, however, did not stop at compromises. He consciously proclaimed himself “Dominus et Deus” (Lord and God), a title that left no room for equality or consent. He was not just an emperor—he became a new type of ruler for whom sacralized and absolutely unquestionable power became the norm. In this sense, the dominant is not only a political regime, but also an anthropological model: the ordinary citizen was transformed into a subject, homo subditus, who obeyed without question. As Seneca wrote: “power demands unconditional obedience, without it it does not exist.”

It is not surprising that contemporary populism in the United States, embodied in the image of Donald Trump, reveals a striking parallel with the dominant.

The American president, although formally remaining within the framework of constitutional democracy, resembles the same Diocletian in his style of governance. He does not rely on institutions, but, on the contrary, openly fights them - with the "deep state", the media, the judiciary, Congress. All these structures, which traditionally should have been the president's partners in the political process, are now becoming enemies. And Trump is like the only "leader" who can save the nation. And these are not just words. This requires loyalty only to the person of the president, and not to the law or institutions. In this sense, his administration looks like something that sometimes resembles a cult of personality, where Trump's power only grows every day. As in his time in Rome, where the emperor was the source of all power, Trump is also building his own cult.

Trump's statements, like Diocletian's blasphemy, are completely devoid of the idea of ​​serving the people. They are based on the concept of a "leader" who "only knows," "only can," and "only will save" — not as a representative of the interests of the community, but as a messiah who came to save the nation. This is no longer service, this is "the rule of divine appointment."

The system has shifted from a model of interaction and balance to a model of vertical power. The American political system, which once functioned as a network of checks and balances between the three branches of government—executive, legislative, and judicial—now resembles a rectilinear vertical, with no room for intermediaries between the people and the “leader.” This is not just a stylistic shift, it is a structural shift: from participation to worship, from deliberation to decree.

Here it is worth mentioning another aphorism of Ancient Rome: “degustibus non est disputandum” — “tastes are not debatable.” However, politics is not about taste, it is about how to build power structures that ultimately shape the state itself.

Both Trump and Diocletian appeal to greatness. Donald Trump, with his famous catchphrase Make America Great Again, announces the beginning of a “new Rome,” while Diocletian, through his administrative reform, sought to restore the greatness of the Roman Empire. However, this greatness, both under Trump and Diocletian, is not organic—it does not arise from the real power of the state or the moral energy of society. It is simply political rhetoric, a grand spectacle that hides emptiness. As Juvenal said: “Great Rome is simply great theaters in which spectacles have replaced the truth.”

Like Diocletian, Trump represents not a rebirth but a transitional era, where the old mechanisms of power no longer work and new ones have not yet been created. This is a period of shadows of the past and attempts to hold them in ritual form until the spirit is lost in the pursuit of external form. This is an era of the loss of deep meanings in favor of spectacle.

One of the most subtle but dangerous changes, embodied by both Diocletian in Rome and Trump in the modern United States, is a kind of sacralization of utility - the desire to strengthen the state through administrative, economic, or geopolitical measures, while neglecting its living soul, its internal civilizational tradition. This is the real paradox: an empire or republic, strengthening itself from the outside, can at the same time be exhausted from the inside - silently losing its own essence, replacing it with a heartless construct.

Diocletian reformed the empire, undoubtedly, from a position of concern for its survival. His tetrarchy system, the clear division of the provinces, the reform of the tax apparatus - all this was a logical and even necessary step in response to the chaos of the third century. But at the same time he finally transformed Rome from a republican idea into a military-bureaucratic machine. The living spirit of Roman culture, in which even the emperor had to breathe the same air as the people, was replaced by an apparatus where fidelity to order weighed more than the ideal of law.

This empire was indeed still alive, functioning, and even defeating external enemies, but as a body without a soul — an organism in which thinking was replaced by instructions.

Similarly, Trump — in his political initiatives — also demonstrates concern for the “rescue” of America: restoring production, reducing taxes, withdrawing from “unprofitable” international agreements, strengthening borders. On the surface, this looks like an attempt to heal the state. But the essence lies in the way this is implemented. Through linguistic pressure, the devaluation of civil institutions, the undermining of trust in the press, the courts, science, and the very idea of ​​universal truth. This is not just pragmatic governance — it is an attempt to replace the civilizational narrative with a technocratic one — the state is seen as a business, and the people as a clientele, for whom it is enough to promise profit and security. Such a state can indeed exist — even be “successful” — but no longer as the heir to the high ideal of freedom, equality, and dignity. It turns into a survival machine that revolves around power, not meaning.

Both Rome and America — in their best eras — were not simply geopolitical structures. They were carriers of a unique spiritual model: the Roman mos maiorum, the American “w the people.” It was these ideals that gave meaning to the struggle, affirmed the ethics of a common future. When this model is replaced by the desire for efficiency, when the love for the idea that lies at the heart of the state disappears, then we observe an external strengthening that is at the same time an internal ruin.

Thus, just as Diocletian built a rigid, mechanical empire devoid of the Roman soul, so Trump offers America survival without its core. Such a state may be powerful, formidable, even majestic in appearance, but it ceases to be the same state that was once revered not only for its strength but also for its spirit. And it is here that we see the subtlest but most fatal change: instead of civilization, there is construction, instead of heritage, there is function, instead of soul, there is a shell.

Every empire or state that enters a phase of transition from living tradition to managed stability inevitably faces the need to shape a new ideology of loyalty. Old bonds—tribal, religious, legal, cultural—disintegrate or lose their credibility. In their place comes a new concept of legitimizing power, often based on the emotional mobilization of the masses through fear, grandeur, the promise of stability, or a fictional past. We see this shift both in Rome under Diocletian and in modern America under Trump.

Diocletian, realizing that he could no longer rely on the old Roman noble tradition or on senatorial consensus, turned to the sacralization of his own person and the construction of a new type of legitimation - through religious fear and a pseudo-divine halo. He did not simply reform the administration - he turned the emperor into an object of worship, not just a bearer of power. Along with this, there was an intensification of persecution of Christians - not so much because of their faith itself, but because they constituted an alternative loyalty, another vertical of spiritual obedience, not controlled by the state. Christianity was dangerous not as a faith, but as an environment where power was based not on coercion, but on love and faith - which is why it seemed subversive to Diocletian. Thus, the totalitarian ideal of unity was formed: the empire no longer tolerated plurality - neither in faith, nor in views, nor in symbols.

A similar process is taking place in the rhetoric and practice of Trump, who, like Diocletian, requires not just support—he requires exclusive loyalty. That is why his political ethics are not dialogue but loyalty. He does not recognize partial loyalty: either with him or against him. The result is a new model of the citizen—not a thinking participant in the political process, but an emotional member of a tribe, acting according to the logic of identity, not reason. This is not only a devaluation of politics, but also a cultural transformation: thinking gives way to reflex, conviction to instinct. Such a community is no longer a civilization in the ancient or classical sense: it becomes a mass capable of mobilization but not of self-government.

As a result, as under Diocletian, we are witnessing a transition from a state of pluralism to a state of unity, but not a spiritual/mental unity, but an ideologically unified one. This type of statehood is dangerous because it is capable of lasting, of strengthening, even of producing results—but these results are always built on the expulsion of otherness, on the erasure of nuances, on the replacement of truth with a convenient myth. Such an empire—and such an America—may seem strong, but its power will always be artificial, because it is based not on dignity but on fear, not on love for the common but on hatred for the foreign.

When we look at the figure of Diocletian against the background of the history of the Roman Empire, as well as at the phenomenon of Donald Trump against the background of modern US political life, we see not only an analogy between two political leaders. We see the figure of a transitional ruler, a person who comes onto the historical scene at a time when the old model has already lost its viability and the new one has not yet formed. Such a leader, as a rule, is not the creator of a great civilization - but he is a symbol of the fact that it is no longer itself. He is not necessarily evil or despotic - but he is inevitably fatal, because through him the old form of power, statehood, culture speaks for the last time, and - perishes.

Diocletian did not destroy Rome - on the contrary, he tried to save it, strengthen it, modernize it. He was not a dictator in the crude sense of the word - rather an administrator, a reformer, a strategist. But in his person the empire finally severed its connection with its roots: with senatorial freedom, with civic dignity, with the principle of serving the res publica. His dominance, even despite its effectiveness, was the beginning of the process as a result of which Rome was no longer Rome - formally it still existed, but civilizationally it transformed into something new, into another historical form, where the Latin language, Roman law and military glory were only a mask behind which lived a reality that was no longer Roman, but post-Roman. In this sense, Diocletian is not a savior, but a harbinger of the end, which gives structures to the decline, formulates its logic, but cannot stop it. Likewise, Donald Trump, despite his calls for "greatness," is not so much restoring America as codifying its civilizational fatigue.

Under the slogans of strength, sovereignty, economic growth, he voices a profound loss of moral center: that crisis of trust, solidarity, and values ​​that is slowly but surely eroding the American project as the bearer of a certain universal idea. Under Trump, America does not return to its sources—Virginia, John Adams, the liberal tradition—it rather follows the path of an emotional reconstruction of an image in which greatness is identified with domination, truth with profit, and freedom with enclosure. This is not a revival, but a virtualization of the past, in which the external symbols are preserved but the inner essence is lost.

And it is here that the deepest historical “kinship” between Trump and Diocletian is felt: both are trumpeters of decline, heralds of the border beyond which the old identity still languishes, but no longer creates. They do not initiate an era — they complete it. Their historical function is not to give an answer, but to point out the exhaustion of the old language. In this sense, Trump is not a new Caesar, because Julius Caesar was still creating the future. Trump is, rather, the last voice of America as a community: behind him begins a new era, perhaps even stronger geopolitically, but already different in essence. Just as after Diocletian, Constantine appears with a new, Christian worldview and a new capital, so after Trump, perhaps, a new America will appear — with a new “faith,” a new space, a new code of identity.

Such are the paradoxes of history: the great figures of transition are often not prophets of the new, but rather architects of the end. And therein lies their greatness, tragedy, and unchanging relevance.

At a deeper level—beyond facts, reforms, or statements—the figures of Diocletian and Trump embody more than just a political style or a certain stage in the life of states. They are the archetype of the last guardian of the old world, in which the form still remains but the spirit is already fading. That is why both leaders are not so much “destroyers” or “reformers” as guardians of decay, who are trying with their will to stop what is historically inevitable: the collapse of the civilizational paradigm.

In the terms of the classical tradition, this is the time of sunset, or vesperae historiae, when the shadows lengthen, when things still stand in their places but are already losing their inner clarity. It is at such a moment that the figures of the "iron administrators" appear - those who know how to order chaos, give form, restore discipline, but are unable to resurrect meaning. They do not believe in spirit, because they see only function; they do not seek truth, because they are satisfied with stability. Their hero is not a prophet, but a technocrat. Their faith is not in an idea, but in the result.

Diocletian did not believe in Christianity, even when it was already a civilizational force. Trump did not believe in the power of America's intellectual, moral, pluralistic heritage, even when this heritage could still be a source of renewal. In both cases, we are dealing with a desire to tame living history, to reduce it to the logic of power, survival, and order. But it is precisely such history that cannot be saved: it must either be rethought or given into the hands of a new spirit—such as Christianity in Rome, or perhaps some as-yet-unnamed idea in the modern world.

Executions of Christians during the time of Dialectanian

That is why both Diocletian and Trump are not the end as a ruin, but the end as a threshold. Behind them is the new, but not yet understood. They are the last word of the old era, spoken with a brilliance of power, but no longer with a prophetic breath. And this is their metahistorical function: to clear the horizon, to bring the form to the limit, so that the new essence can be born without illusions.

And for us, the descendants of these historical plots, the highest task remains - not to despise the end, but to understand it. For only he who honors the form of decline is able to meet the form of resurrection with dignity.

The phase of obscuration is not simply a decline. It is the moment when the light is still visible, but it no longer guides. Rituals, flags, speeches are preserved—but the faith behind them is gone. Historical figures who emerge at such a time are capable of power, even greatness—but their greatness is always defensive, full of shadows.

Diocletian, like Trump, are not weak rulers. On the contrary, their power is decisive, their stature is majestic, their influence is profound. But that is precisely why they have become symbols of decline: because, as the last emperors before the baptism of civilization into the new world, they embody the limit beyond which the old form could no longer survive.

And when we see today how the old illusions of power without wisdom, of glory without sacrifice, of unity without truth are revived in the world, it is worth remembering these figures. For each phase of obscurantism calls for its Trump, as it once called for its Diocletian. But not for renewal, but for the last word of the old world.

Martin SkavronskyiFor Newsky