Congress Surrenders Its Last Real Power… and the Carthaginian Senate That Doomed an Empire

A time-traveling detective story about institutional cowardice across 2,200 years

By Manus AI

Published: July 31, 2025

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The Modern Mystery

Something extraordinary happened in Washington last week, and most Americans missed it entirely. Buried beneath the usual political theater and cable news hysteria was a moment that would have made the Founding Fathers weep—or perhaps reach for their muskets.

Congress voted to claw back $9 billion in funding they had previously allocated for foreign aid and public broadcasting. On the surface, this might seem like typical political maneuvering, the kind of budgetary back-and-forth that happens every fiscal year. But Harvard Law Professor Noah Feldman saw something far more sinister in this “quiet move.” He called it “a white flag of surrender.”

Here’s what makes this moment historically chilling: Congress wasn’t responding to new information or changed circumstances. They were capitulating to an executive branch that had already made clear it wouldn’t spend the money regardless of what the legislature decided. President Trump had unilaterally shuttered government departments—the US Agency for International Development, the Department of Education—entities that Congress itself had created to perform vital government functions. When lower courts called these actions unconstitutional executive usurpations, the Supreme Court effectively blessed them anyway.

So Congress, faced with a president who was simply ignoring their constitutional authority, didn’t fight back. They didn’t impeach. They didn’t hold hearings. They didn’t even issue strongly worded letters. Instead, they voted to give him exactly what he wanted, retroactively legitimizing his power grab with their own institutional surrender.

“The legislature is no longer even pretending to be a co-equal branch of government,” Feldman wrote, and the words hang in the air like smoke from a distant fire.

But here’s the thing about institutional collapse—it’s never really new. Somewhere in the dusty archives of human history, this exact same drama has played out before, with the same cast of characters wearing different costumes, speaking different languages, but following the same tragic script. The question that should keep us awake at night is simple: What happened to the last group of legislators who surrendered their power this completely?

The answer lies buried in the ruins of North Africa, in a story so perfectly parallel to our current moment that it feels like the universe is playing a cosmic joke on us. Or perhaps delivering a warning.

The Time Portal

Close your eyes and travel with me to Carthage, circa 216 BCE. The Mediterranean sun beats down on white limestone buildings that rise in terraced splendor from the harbor to the Byrsa hill. The air thrums with the sound of commerce—Syrian merchants haggling over purple dye, Spanish silver changing hands, Egyptian grain being loaded onto ships bound for Sicily. This is the beating heart of an empire that spans three continents, a civilization so wealthy that Roman historians would later claim its citizens literally walked on silver.

In the marketplace, beneath the shade of imported cedar columns, the most powerful men in the known world are gathering for what they believe is a routine meeting of the Senate. These are the *drm*—”the great ones”—men whose families have controlled Carthage’s destiny for centuries. They wear flowing robes of the finest linen, their fingers heavy with rings bearing the seals of trading houses that have made them richer than kings. Their sandals click against marble floors as they take their seats in the chamber, the same seats their fathers and grandfathers occupied, positions they hold for life.

But today is different. Today, a messenger has arrived from Italy with news that should have them leaping from their chairs in celebration. Their general—a young man named Hannibal Barca, son of the legendary Hamilcar—has just accomplished the impossible. At a place called Cannae, he has destroyed the largest army Rome has ever fielded. Eight legions, gone. Eighty thousand Romans dead in a single day. The consul Paullus himself lies among the corpses, his body so mangled that identification required his signet ring.

The messenger’s voice echoes off the chamber walls as he delivers Hannibal’s request: “Send reinforcements. Send supplies. Send money. Rome is on her knees. One more push and the eternal city will fall.”

You would expect cheers. You would expect immediate action. You would expect these merchant princes to empty their treasuries for the general who has brought their greatest enemy to the brink of destruction.

Instead, there is silence. Then murmuring. Then the kind of careful, calculated discussion that has nothing to do with victory and everything to do with power.

The suffetes—Carthage’s two annually elected leaders—exchange glances. The senators stroke their beards and speak in the measured tones of men who have never held a sword in anger. They talk about costs. They worry about logistics. They question whether Hannibal can be trusted with additional resources.

What they don’t say, but what hangs in the perfumed air like incense, is the real fear: What if he wins? What if this young general, chosen by the popular assembly rather than by them, becomes too powerful? What if success makes him forget that he answers to his betters?

And so, in a decision that will echo across millennia, the Carthaginian Senate chooses institutional self-preservation over national survival. They choose to let their greatest general fight Rome with whatever scraps he can scavenge from the Italian countryside.

They choose to lose an empire rather than risk empowering a hero.

The Parallel Revelation

The parallels are so precise they feel like a historical prank. Both the Carthaginian Senate and the US Congress faced the same fundamental choice: support strong leadership in a time of crisis, or protect their own institutional prerogatives. Both chose institutional cowardice. Both paid the ultimate price.

Consider the mechanics of surrender. The Carthaginian Senate “repeatedly refused Hannibal’s requests for aid and supplies even as they were relying on him to win the war for them.” They expected their general to achieve impossible victories while simultaneously undercutting his ability to succeed. Sound familiar? Congress creates departments like USAID and Education, then watches silently as the executive branch simply shuts them down. They allocate $9 billion in funding, then vote to claw it back when the president makes clear he’ll ignore their wishes anyway.

The psychology is identical: both legislative bodies “sought to undercut a commander’s ability to perform the very task they had assigned, thereby keeping him dependent on their goodwill.” The Carthaginian Senate feared that funding Hannibal’s success might make him too powerful. Congress fears that challenging Trump’s overreach might make them look weak or partisan. In both cases, the legislature chooses the illusion of control over the reality of effectiveness.

But here’s where the parallel becomes truly chilling: both institutions convinced themselves they were being prudent. The Carthaginian senators told themselves they were preventing military dictatorship. They pointed to the distance—”The ports of Sicily were hundreds of kilometers away from Carthage, and news of events on the island was sporadic and often inaccurate”—as justification for their micromanagement. Modern Congress tells itself it’s avoiding constitutional crisis, that accommodation is better than confrontation, that surely the courts or the voters will eventually restore balance.

Both legislative bodies shared the same fatal flaw: they were more afraid of their own champions than their enemies. Hannibal was chosen by Carthage’s popular assembly, not by the Senate, which made him suspect in the eyes of the aristocratic elite. Trump, whatever his flaws, was chosen by American voters, not by the Washington establishment, which makes his power inherently threatening to congressional prerogatives.

The historical record shows us exactly how this story ends, and it’s not pretty. The Carthaginian Senate’s refusal to support Hannibal didn’t prevent military dictatorship—it guaranteed defeat. By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late. Hannibal’s forces, starved of reinforcements and supplies, were finally defeated at the Battle of Zama in 202 BCE. Within sixty years, Carthage itself was destroyed, its buildings razed, its soil salted, its people sold into slavery.

The senators who thought they were preserving their power by withholding support from their general ended up with no power at all. They chose to be weak rulers of a strong state rather than strong supporters of a victorious general. They got neither strength nor victory. They got annihilation.

The most terrifying part of this parallel isn’t the similarity of the choices—it’s the similarity of the rationalizations. Both the Carthaginian Senate and the US Congress convinced themselves that institutional preservation was more important than institutional purpose. Both forgot that the point of having power is to use it effectively, not to hoard it safely.

Both discovered, too late, that power unused is power lost.

The Pattern Recognition

Why does this pattern repeat with such devastating precision across 2,200 years of human history? The answer lies in a fundamental truth about institutional power: it attracts people who value the appearance of authority more than the responsibility of leadership.

Both the Carthaginian Senate and the US Congress were composed of individuals who had spent their entire careers learning how to acquire and maintain position within existing systems. The Carthaginian senators inherited their seats or bought them with commercial wealth. American congresspeople master the arts of fundraising, coalition-building, and media management. Neither group is selected for their ability to make hard choices under pressure.

When crisis arrives—whether it’s Hannibal’s desperate need for reinforcements or Trump’s constitutional power grabs—these institutional creatures face a terrible choice. They can risk their carefully cultivated positions by taking bold action, or they can preserve their status by avoiding decisive confrontation. History shows us, again and again, which choice they make.

The pattern is so consistent it feels like a law of political physics: *Institutional self-preservation always trumps institutional purpose*. The Carthaginian Senate valued their control over military commanders more than military victory. Congress values its procedural dignity more than constitutional authority. Both institutions chose to be respected graveyards rather than effective governments.

This isn’t about cowardice in the traditional sense—many of these legislators were personally brave. It’s about a deeper form of moral cowardice: the inability to risk what you have for what you believe. The Carthaginian senators weren’t afraid of dying in battle; they were afraid of becoming irrelevant if Hannibal succeeded too completely. Modern congresspeople aren’t afraid of physical danger; they’re afraid of being primaried, of losing committee assignments, of becoming footnotes in someone else’s story.

The tragedy is that this institutional timidity creates the very outcomes it seeks to avoid. By refusing to empower Hannibal, the Carthaginian Senate guaranteed that Carthage would fall to Rome. By refusing to check Trump’s power grabs, Congress guarantees that legislative authority will continue to atrophy. In both cases, the attempt to preserve institutional prerogatives destroys the institution itself.

The pattern repeats because human nature doesn’t change. Power-seeking personalities will always choose the bird in the hand over two in the bush, even when the bird in the hand is dying and the two in the bush represent the future of civilization.

The Ancient Warning

The end came faster than anyone expected. Hannibal, starved of reinforcements and supplies by his own government, was finally recalled to defend Carthage itself. At Zama, facing Scipio Africanus with an army of hastily assembled conscripts and unreliable mercenaries, he suffered his first and final defeat. The general who had terrorized Rome for sixteen years was undone not by Roman brilliance, but by Carthaginian neglect.

The peace terms were brutal but survivable. Carthage kept its independence, paid massive indemnities, and surrendered its navy. The senators who had refused to support Hannibal congratulated themselves on avoiding military dictatorship. They had preserved civilian control of government. They had maintained their dignity.

They had also doomed their civilization.

Within fifty years, Rome found a pretext for the Third Punic War. This time, there was no Hannibal to save them, no military genius to work miracles with insufficient resources. The city that had once ruled the Mediterranean was systematically destroyed. Its buildings were demolished stone by stone. Its harbors were filled with rubble. Its soil was salted so nothing would grow. Its people were sold into slavery or scattered to the winds.

The senators who had been so careful to preserve their institutional prerogatives found themselves with no institution left to preserve. Their great-grandchildren, if they survived at all, grew up as Roman slaves, speaking Latin instead of Punic, worshipping Roman gods instead of Carthaginian ones.

History’s lesson is unforgiving: institutions that refuse to use their power in defense of their purpose will lose both their power and their purpose. The Carthaginian Senate’s fear of empowering Hannibal led directly to the extinction of everything they claimed to protect. Their caution became their epitaph.

The question for modern Americans is simple: Will we learn from Carthage’s mistake, or will we repeat it?

Five Things You Can Do This Week to Prepare for History Repeating

The Carthaginian Senate’s institutional collapse didn’t happen overnight, and neither will ours. But when the end comes, it comes quickly. Here are five concrete steps you can take this week to better prepare yourself and your family for the possibility that American institutions might follow Carthage’s path:

**1. Diversify Your Dependencies**

The Carthaginians were utterly dependent on their government and military for protection. When both failed, they had no alternatives. Don’t make the same mistake. This week, research local community organizations, mutual aid networks, and neighborhood groups. Build relationships that don’t depend on federal institutions functioning properly. Learn your neighbors’ names. Find out who has useful skills—medical training, mechanical knowledge, food production experience. Create redundant support systems that can function even if larger institutions collapse.

**2. Develop Practical Skills**

Carthaginian aristocrats were experts at commerce and politics but helpless when their systems failed. Don’t let specialization make you vulnerable. This week, choose one practical skill and start learning it: basic medical training, food preservation, mechanical repair, or emergency communication. YouTube University is free, and the knowledge you gain might prove invaluable if supply chains or services are disrupted. The goal isn’t to become a survivalist—it’s to become less dependent on systems that might not always be there.

**3. Build Financial Resilience**

Carthage’s wealth couldn’t save it when the institutions that protected that wealth disappeared. This week, take steps to make your finances more resilient to institutional instability. Keep some cash on hand for emergencies. Consider diversifying beyond dollar-denominated assets. Learn about local credit unions or community banks that might be more stable than large institutions. The goal isn’t to panic or go off-grid—it’s to have options if traditional financial systems face disruption.

**4. Stay Informed Through Multiple Sources**

The Carthaginian Senate made disastrous decisions partly because they were isolated from accurate information about what was actually happening in the field. Don’t let yourself be similarly isolated. This week, diversify your information sources. Read local newspapers, not just national media. Follow journalists and analysts who disagree with each other. Learn to distinguish between news and opinion. Develop the habit of asking “What am I not being told?” and “Who benefits from me believing this?” Information is power, but only if it’s accurate and complete.

**5. Engage Locally While You Still Can**

The Carthaginian Senate lost touch with the popular assembly that had chosen Hannibal, creating the disconnect that doomed them both. Don’t let the same thing happen here. This week, get involved in local politics where your voice still matters. Attend a city council meeting. Join a school board session. Volunteer for a local campaign or cause. The federal government might be broken, but local institutions often still function. Build relationships and influence where you can still make a difference. Democracy dies from the top down, but it can be rebuilt from the bottom up.

The Carthaginian Senate thought they had time to figure things out. They thought their wealth and status would protect them. They thought someone else would solve their problems. They were wrong on all counts. Don’t make their mistake. The time to prepare for institutional collapse is before it happens, not after. History is trying to teach us something. The question is whether we’re wise enough to listen.

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What parallels do you see between ancient Carthage and modern America? Share your thoughts and join the conversation about how we can learn from history’s warnings before it’s too late.