War criminals never retire. They just get better funerals.
Bertolt Brecht knew this. He knew the old trick: win a war, and they call you a hero. Lose it, and they hang you. The world’s got no moral compass, just a scoreboard.
So he wrote The Trial of Lucullus, a play that drags an ancient Roman general—Lucius Licinius Lucullus—into the afterlife for a final reckoning.
No parades, no statues, just a trial where the dead call him out. It’s brilliant. And brutal.
Brecht was always a troublemaker. German, Marxist, exiled, dodging both Nazis and McCarthyists. He saw too many “great men” get away with too much bloodshed, so he did what he did best—he put them on trial.
Now let’s talk about how he dissects them. Seven points. One courtroom. One hell of a verdict.
1. War Heroes or Butchers? (It’s the Same Thing)
Lucullus is dead. Gone. Snuffed out.
But instead of golden gates and celestial fanfare, he walks into a courtroom.
No velvet chairs, no polished floors. Just the cold, hollow voices of the dead.
The ones who dug trenches, carried spears, bled out in the dirt.
Peasants, foot soldiers, nameless workers who spent their lives building empires they never got to enjoy. They’re the jury.
Lucullus, ever the proud general, straightens his back. He lists his victories, each one a badge of honor.
He talks about battles won, cities conquered, lands “civilized.” He expects applause. Maybe a nod of approval. Maybe some ghostly murmurs of admiration.
Instead, silence. Then, a single question: “At what cost?”
Lucullus frowns.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He knows the history books—they celebrate men like him. They don’t ask about the farmers who starved because their land was torched.
They don’t mention the boys who died screaming in a language their killers didn’t bother to understand. They don’t count the mothers who waited for sons who never came home.
Brecht knew history has a nasty habit of dressing up slaughter as “strategy.” The powerful never call it murder. They call it conquest. They call it necessary.
Lucullus thinks he’s Julius Caesar. A legend. A great man.
The dead see him for what he is. A glorified meat grinder. A butcher who never held the knife himself but always knew where to point it.
2. The Economy of Death
Lucullus puffs out his chest. He speaks of riches, of the golden age he helped usher in.
He talks about the silver flowing into Rome, the overflowing markets, the feasts that stretched for days.
He talks about how he made the empire stronger, how he lined its treasury with the spoils of war.
The judges don’t look impressed. Not one bit. They stare at him the way a farmer looks at a wolf explaining why the chickens should be grateful.
Finally, one of them leans forward. “Who profited?”
Lucullus blinks.
“And who paid?”
That’s the real question, isn’t it? The part the history books skim over.
Brecht doesn’t skim. He cuts right through. He knew war wasn’t about glory. It was about balance sheets. Some men gamble with lives and walk away richer. Others never get to walk away at all.
Lucullus ate well. Rome feasted. The senators, the merchants, the men in marble halls—they all grew fat on his victories.
But the men who fought for him? The ones who held the line, swung the swords, carried the weight? They rotted in fields far from home. Their mothers got a few words on a slab of stone. Their children got nothing.
The ones who lived? Broken bodies. No fortune. No feast. Just another war around the corner, another general with another plan, another promise that this time, it would all be worth it.
Lucullus can talk all he wants about the wealth he brought to Rome.
The jury knows the truth.
Wealth, like blood, has a way of pooling in the same places.
3. Conquerors Never Starve
Brecht doesn’t let Lucullus off easy.
He reminds us that the real winners of war aren’t the soldiers or the civilians.
It’s the men who sit at the banquet table when the blood dries.
Lucullus had power, wealth, and influence. But now, stripped of it all, he’s just a man answering for his crimes.
That’s the beauty of this trial: it ignores the history books and listens to the dead instead.
4. Justice from Below, Not Above
Most trials are rigged. The powerful judge the powerless. Brecht flips it.
The powerless judge the powerful.
It’s the kind of justice that never happens in the real world. The kind that should.
Lucullus can’t bribe his way out of this one.
No senators to save him.
No historians to spin his tale. Just the people he crushed, asking the questions no one dared ask while he was alive.
5. The Ghosts Have the Final Word
The dead don’t care about honor. They don’t care about legacy. They want to know why they had to die.
Lucullus has no answer. Because there isn’t one.
Brecht forces us to see war through the eyes of the forgotten, the trampled, the nameless masses who disappear while history worships the generals.
6. The Illusion of Legacy
Lucullus wants to be remembered.
He wants statues, poems, admiration. But the trial makes one thing clear: the people who build statues aren’t the ones who fight wars. The ones who fight them? They end up in the dirt.
Brecht knew legacy was a scam. A trick played by the living to keep the dead quiet.
7. The Verdict? Guilt. The Sentence? Obscurity.
The court finds Lucullus guilty. His punishment? Erasure. No history books. No statues. No songs. Just silence.
And that’s the real nightmare for men like him. Not death. Not even judgment. Just being forgotten.
Summary Table
| Key Theme | Brecht’s Take |
|---|---|
| War Heroes vs. Butchers | The same thing. |
| Economic Cost of War | The rich feast, the poor rot. |
| Who Profits? | Not the soldiers. Not the dead. |
| True Justice | Happens when the people judge the powerful. |
| The Ghosts’ Perspective | They don’t care about glory, only loss. |
| Legacy vs. Reality | History remembers the killers, not the killed. |
| Final Verdict | Guilt. The worst punishment? Being forgotten. |
Brecht wrote The Trial of Lucullus to expose a truth we still ignore: power forgives itself. History polishes bloodstains into medals.
The ones who should be on trial? They die in their beds.
Comfortable. Celebrated.
Lucullus was lucky he got a trial at all.
Most war criminals don’t.
And if you think this play is about ancient Rome, think again.
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