Mary Beard’s SPQR—which stands for “Senate and People of Rome”—covers the first thousand years of the Roman Empire, running from the legendary founding of the city in 753 BCE to 212 CE, when Caracalla extended citizenship to all free men living within the Empire.  Her narrative anchors at the time of Caesar and Cicero (i.e., the middle of the first century BCE), which not only saw Rome’s transition from a republic to one-man rule, but also produced a significant body of literature, including a huge volume of Cicero’s writing. Coincidentally, this period largely overlaps with the glorious thousand years of Ancient China, between the Spring and Autumn Period, officially commenced in 770 BCE, to the end of the Eastern Han Dynasty (220 CE).

You would be thoroughly disappointed if you look forward to reading the colorful stories of the famed Roman tyrants or the virtuous deeds of the five good emperors.  Beard refused to reconstruct Roman history in terms of the biographies of the rulers.
She is skeptical of the accuracy of their “standard images” passed on to us in historical records. More importantly, she does not believe “the qualities of the man on the throne” would make much difference, because all emperors, from Nero to Marcus Aurelius, ruled according to the same blueprint laid out by Augustus.  Her sentiment reminds me of an Afghan proverb I recently came across,

“Better a strong dog in the yard than a strong king in the capital”.  

Accordingly, Beard’s portrait of Rome focuses on ordinary Romans.  She depicts with vivid details the Roman way of life, from where Romans live, what they eat, to how they commemorate the dead; she describes every facet of the society, from politics, entertainment and personal finance to law enforcement and war.  Beard’s stories are always carefully backed up not only by the writings of contemporary Romans, but also by rich archeological records – many of which I’ve never known exist.    I very much appreciate her deemphasizing royal résumés and court intrigues. However, I’m not sure all emperors are as useless or harmless as she insists. It may be true that emperors had limited influences on the daily life of any ordinary peasant or aristocrat.   However, overly ambitious despots or utterly incompetent idiots could still, without great labor, throw their empires into cataclysm and destroy millions of lives in the wake. This is especially true for many Chinese dynasties, where an ever-present, sophisticated, and layered bureaucratic system could impose laws and extract resources in nearly every corner of the empire.

Beard seems to agree with Polybius—a Greek who wrote in the second century BCE a 40-volume book entitled “Histories”—that Rome’s rapid ascent to hegemony should be credited to the idea of checks-and-balances embedded in her political system.  Seeking to maintain a delicate equilibrium between consuls, the senate, and the people, the idea had influenced the United States’ constitution so much that it remains the emblem of her politics to this day.  However, I suspect Polybius had made a common mistake in social science here: extrapolating incomplete patterns into a specious theory. On the other side of Earth, the Kingdom of Qin established the first Chinese empire in 221 BCE, 75 years before Rome became the master of Mediterranean on the ruins of Carthage.  Qin was a highly centralized monarchy founded on legalism, a political philosophy antithetical to the idea of checks-and-balances. Legalists argue the more concentrated the power is into the hands of the sovereign, the better. They advised the emperor that the people are not to be entrusted with liberty or right to participatory governance; instead, they must be ruthlessly exploited for the collective national interest––whatever that means––and to save themselves from falling victim to their own vices (hence the slogan “serving the people”). Cruel as it might sound, legalism had enabled Qin to conquer a vast territory by force and remake China in its own image. To be sure, the mighty Qin dynasty lasted only 15 years.  However, the polity it pioneered had survived for millenniums – some may argue it continues to this day. Thus, checks-and-balances is probably not the secret behind Rome’s unparalleled success.  Nor had it saved Rome from the populist strong men of the first century BCE – the likes of Pompei, Caesar and Octavian.

Beard notes “Roman emperors and their advisors never solved the problem of succession”.  Rather than sticking to primogeniture, Roman rulers often resorted to— sometimes forced by biology, as in the case of Julio-Claudian dynasty—a form of ambiguous meritocracy for choosing their heir. As a result, for the period covered in the book, only three emperors, Vespasian, Marcus Aurelius and Septimius Severus, had passed the throne to their biological sons.  Those who have watched the Hollywood movie “Gladiator” may remember the scene where Marcus Aurelius was murdered by his son, Commodus, who found out the philosopher emperor was about to name an able and wise general as the heir to the throne. I have not seen much evidence supporting this dramatized version of the fateful succession that upended the era of “five-good-emperors”.  In fact, Commodus was named the co-emperor––another strange Roman invention––at the age of 15 by his father.   Nevertheless, the Hollywood story captures the Romans’ ideal succession principle, perhaps best expressed in a speech delivered to the emperor Trajan by Pliny the Younger,

“If he is to rule over all, he must be chosen from all”.

To Pliny’s contemporaries in China––the elites of the Eastern Han Dynasty––the suggestion that an emperor should be chosen from all must sound absurd, if not blasphemous.  While the legend has it that once upon a time Chinese, too, chose their ruler by merit rather than birth, that nostalgic era of Yao-Shun-Yu (尧舜禹) had long gone by the time when Pliny wrote his speech.   The point, of course, was never about which succession principle is better, but rather no principle always works under one-man rule. As Beard points out, transferring the absolute power is an inherently unstable and dangerous business, and the moment when that power was supposedly handed on was “always the moment when the empire was most vulnerable.”  To this truth millions of people can still attest even today.

I am always attracted to “The End of XXX”. “The End of Faith”, “The End of Time”, “The End of Physics”, “The End of History”, and the list goes on.   Thus, ever since a colleague of mine named The End of Everything his favorite book about astrophysics, I knew I must read it.   I was not disappointed.

The book is a layman’s guide to cosmology, with a focus on the death of the universe. Katie Mack explains that our universe could end in five different ways and she expects humanity to survive in none of these scenarios.  Of the five endings, Heat Death seems the most humane to me.  In it, the universe will continue to expand until it reaches a thermodynamic equilibrium, at which nothing, including life in any form as we know it, can ever happen again.  The other four endings, if I understand them correctly, all involve a cataclysm that, according to Mack, you will never want to live long enough to witness.

A book entitled “The end of everything”, of course, is inherently about eschatology.  Contemplating the end of the universe was surprisingly hard and strangely personal. In fact, I found it even harder than thinking of my own death. We humans often come to terms with death using the legacies we might leave behind: passing our genes on to next generations; making the world a better place; or better yet, enshrining our ideas in eternal knowledge.  However, if humanity itself will not survive the destruction of the universe, these justifications sound unconvincing.  “At some point, in a cosmic sense, it will not have mattered that we ever lived.” Mack tells us.  This comment reminds me of the famous quote from the movie Coco, “When there is no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. we call it the Final Death”. The end of universe is the Final Death of Humanity.

Mack then asks the obvious question: “What does that mean for humanity and where does that leave us now?”  In the epilogue, she tried but struggled to offer a satisfactory answer.  I could not come up with an answer either.  In fact, just thinking about it makes me feel sad. Indeed, when a colleague of Mack posed that question at an academic seminar, some people in the audience cried.

Mack is a great writer and communicator.  Her infectious passion for science and sharp wit makes reading the book a joy that I look forward to everyday. For the first time, I feel that I actually understand what dark energy or cosmic background radiation is.  Of course, I still have no idea about the Higgs Field or Vacuum Decay, but that’s probably on me.