A Modern Triumvirate? New Zealand’s Political Power Play and Its Historical Parallels

History doesn’t always repeat itself, but sometimes it sure does come awfully close.

As one does at 3am when they should be sleeping or cleaning or wrapping presents 3 weeks out from Christmas, or any other number of useful things, I fell down a rabbit hole which started with Billy Shakespeare’s retelling of Antony and Cleopatra, passed by Julius Ceaser, and plonked me down with the Roman triumvirate which was a mutually beneficial agreement between three political leaders. Sound familiar?

Because it had me feeling like I was reading about the current political landscape in Aotearoa where we’ve got our own three major players on the board: David Seymour, Christopher Luxon, and Winston Peters, leading their respective parties—ACT, National, and New Zealand First. Their political chemistry could easily be described as a modern-day iteration of the First Triumvirate in Ancient Rome, but with a unique twist that’s all our own.

The original Triumvirate was a volatile mix of ambition, power grabs, and fragile alliances—no, that doesn’t sound like our current political climate at all, right? Except that just like in ancient Rome, we’re watching some serious political manoeuvring unfold, and if history has anything to say about it, things could get messy. Fast.

So you can see how my rabbit hole got deeper, and suddenly I’m breaking down how our political situation echoes these historic dynamics and why the fallout from this power play could be just as catastrophic as it was in Rome.

The Triumvirate: Julius Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus—The Originals

First, to set the scene. In 60 BCE, three powerful figures—Julius Caesar, Pompey the Great, and Marcus Licinius Crassus—formed the First Triumvirate in Rome, a political alliance designed to consolidate their power and control over the Republic. Each of these men had a distinct role to play, but it didn’t take long for the alliance to fall apart in spectacular fashion.

Julius Caesar was the ambitious, larger-than-life general whose military successes and strategic mind propelled him into the public eye. But he wasn’t just content with his status; he wanted to become the ultimate ruler of Rome.

Pompey was the people’s hero, a charismatic and highly successful general with an impeccable military record. While he had public support, he lacked the political power to match.

Crassus was rich—incredibly rich—and used his wealth to maintain his influence in the Senate. But while he was a man of means, his actual military and political impact often seemed to fall short compared to the others.

This alliance was designed to be the political equivalent of a super team, combining Caesar’s ambition, Pompey’s popularity, and Crassus’s wealth. But things didn’t go according to plan – Pompey and Caesar’s rivalry grew, Crassus met died on the battlefield, and Rome soon found itself in a full-blown civil war, ultimately leading to the Republic’s collapse.

New Zealand’s Triumvirate: A Familiar Power Play?

On the face of it, there’s not too much to compare to the current trio leading New Zealand’s political stage. At first glance, the dynamics of Seymour, Luxon, and Peters might seem like the stuff of political dreams—each bringing something unique to the table. But with a bit of poetic licence, you can definitely see how history rhymes, and the same underlying tensions that tore apart the original Triumvirate are laid bare.

David Seymour vs Pompey the Great – David Seymour’s role in the current New Zealand coalition government has all the hallmarks of Pompey the Great’s position in the Roman triumvirate—a master of populist rhetoric with a knack for turning a catchy slogan into a political weapon. Just as Pompey was famed for his ability to appeal to the Roman masses with promises of stability and common sense, Seymour has built his brand on soundbites like “one law for all New Zealanders.” On the surface, these slogans radiate a no-nonsense simplicity that resonates with certain voters. But much like Pompey’s oversimplified solutions to Rome’s complex problems, Seymour’s rhetoric often skates over the intricate realities affecting minorities and vulnerable groups.

I once interviewed Seymour when he released his book which centred of his own search for his place in the world, which was of interest to me as he touched on his connections to Ngāpuhi, so imagine my surprise when, instead of answering my questions around this, he instead offered to show me how he could balance a fidget spinner on his nose. It was clear that he wanted to be liked, he wanted to be relatable, but when it comes to Māori, he didn’t actually want to be related, particularly in a news piece that his voting base might see. Similarly, Pompey was a master of public image, presenting himself as a man of the people and a protector of Roman stability. He used grand gestures, like his rapid campaign to rid the Mediterranean of pirates or his triumphal processions, to cultivate a reputation as Rome’s saviour. Yet, when it came to navigating the deeper, structural problems of the Republic, Pompey often avoided decisive action, preferring to maintain the status quo that kept him in power.

A particular sticking point has been Seymour’s fondness for targeting Māori issues, often taking aim at Crown-Tiriti obligations under the guise of “fairness”, particularly with his Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill.  But while Pompey claimed victories that secured Rome’s borders, Seymour seems intent on drawing ideological lines at home, where his one-size-fits-all solutions feel more like carefully crafted moral and racial panic tactics. His message might strike a chord with those who crave clarity in a messy political landscape, but it risks alienating those who see the nuance—and the history—of our nation’s bicultural foundation. In this way, Seymour mirrors Pompey’s ability to sway public sentiment while stepping on toes, casting himself as the relatable “common-sense” figure even as his approach raises tensions when political stakes are high.

Like Pompey, Seymour is undeniably skilled at projecting an image of confident leadership. He wields populist charm with precision, whether it’s in quick-witted debates or carefully crafted press releases. But beneath the surface, his style can be divisive, particularly when it comes to issues that require more than a well-timed zinger to resolve. Just as Pompey’s populism couldn’t hold Rome together as the triumvirate fractured, Seymour’s penchant for polarising rhetoric could become a liability as Aotearoa navigates its own challenges.

Still, one has to admire the flair with which Seymour courts attention, much like Pompey’s parade of triumphs back in the day. But where Pompey eventually found himself overshadowed by the sheer ambition of Julius Caesar, Seymour’s challenge might be to avoid becoming the coalition’s lightning rod for controversy—a role he seems to relish but which could prove tricky in the long run. In politics, as in Rome, being the loudest voice in the room doesn’t always make you the last one standing.

Christopher Luxon vs Marcus Licinius Crassus – On the other hand, Christopher Luxon’s rise to power in Aotearoa’s political landscape might feel oddly reminiscent of Marcus Licinius Crassus, the Roman triumvir who famously leveraged his immense wealth to climb the political ladder. Crassus, often called the richest man in Rome, wasn’t exactly renowned for his brilliance as a leader. Sure, he bankrolled armies and bought influence, but his stint in the triumvirate was overshadowed by Julius Caesar’s cunning and Pompey’s military prowess. In much the same way, Luxon’s tenure as National Party leader—and now Prime Minister—has been less a story of personal triumph and more a tale of strategic timing and a political game of musical chairs.

Luxon didn’t so much seize the crown as he inherited it after a dizzying series of National leaders bit the dust. From Simon Bridges to Judith Collins, the line of deposed leaders reads like another Shakespearean tragedy, but make it Kiwi cringe. By the time Luxon came along, he seemed like the safe, corporate pair of hands National needed—or at least, the only one left standing, National’s answer to Labour’s Chippy who had much the same reputation. And much like Crassus, whose wealth made him indispensable but not exactly inspiring, Luxon’s corporate success may have lent him credibility, but it hasn’t exactly translated to a dazzling display of statesmanship.

Fast forward to the current coalition government, and Luxon finds himself playing third fiddle to David Seymour and Winston Peters, the coalition partners who have eagerly grabbed the spotlight. Seymour’s polished libertarian swagger and Peters’ grizzled political theatre make Luxon look like the guy doing tiktok dances at a stand-up comedy night. It’s a weird position for a Prime Minister to be in—having the top-job title, but being oddly absent when it comes to fronting to the masses. Like Crassus, who met his end in a disastrous failure of a war campaign, Luxon risks being remembered more for his missteps and mediocrity than for any triumphant legacy.

You have to wonder if he’s feeling the pinch. He can’t be so bulletproof or politically and socially unaware as to not notice how the public perceives him and his leadership. Then again, when the Roman triumvirate fell apart and Crassus was left to lose his war alone, history tells us that he was surprised to find he didn’t have the support he thought he had in the other two, and indeed he was quickly forgotten in favour of the grander legacies of Caesar and Pompey. Will Luxon’s leadership go the same way, remembered only as a stepping stone for the coalition’s more colourful characters? As I said, history may not repeat, but it sure does rhyme, especially when it comes to leaders who swap in cash for charisma, only to be surprised when the cheque bounces.

Winston Peters vs Julius Ceaser – Winston Peters is without question the Caesar of New Zealand’s coalition triumvirate. He’s the most politically savvy, the one who understands the game inside and out. Like Caesar, he’s ambitious, strategic, and ruthless when it comes to securing power. But what really seals the deal is how much his political longevity has been built on his ability to form alliances, while simultaneously being prepared to break them when the time comes. His savvy use of coalition-building has made him a kingmaker, though not necessarily someone who plays nicely with others when it no longer suits him.

Much like the legendary Roman general and statesman, Peters possesses an unmatched political savvy, a deep understanding of the game, and an almost preternatural ability to survive, thrive, and dominate. Like Caesar, Peters is ambitious, strategic, and ruthlessly pragmatic when it comes to securing power. His political longevity is testament to this mastery, built on his skill at forging alliances—not out of sentimentality, but as tactical moves to further his agenda. And, as history shows, he’s just as prepared to sever those alliances when they no longer serve his purpose.

Peters has spent decades perfecting the art of coalition-building, positioning himself time and again as the kingmaker. His ability to wield influence far beyond his party’s numbers is Caesar-esque in its brilliance, allowing him to dictate terms and ensure his place at the centre of power. Yet, like Caesar, his approach doesn’t always make him a team player. His coalition partners are allies of convenience, not equals, and Peters is quick to remind everyone who truly holds the cards when the political winds shift. His track record of cutting deals—and occasionally cutting ties—has made him a polarizing but undeniably effective force in New Zealand politics.

Peters, of the three, is a bit of a sore point for Māori, being as his rhetoric can often come across as anti-Māori, despite the fact that he himself is Māori! He grew up in and worked in Māori communities and the north still acknowledge him as their own, albeit begrudgingly. I couldn’t help but quote “et tu, Winston?!” with an ironic dark chuckle that was too painful to actually laugh at.

But much like Caesar’s eventual fate, Peters’ dominance comes with risks. Caesar’s supreme confidence made him the architect of both his rise and his downfall, and Peters’ uncompromising style could similarly alienate allies or create openings for rivals. Yet, as long as the coalition holds, Peters remains the star of the show—a political titan whose every move reshapes the game, ensuring that his legacy will be felt long after the dust settles.

I guess there’s one area where Winston is beyond compare, and that’s longevity. From Ceaser’s early political career to his eventual murder, he served 15 years in politics and died at 44 years of age. In comparison, Winston has been in the game for over five decades and shows no signs of stopping, and while there are similarly many in the house who would wish him harm, politically and beyond, his 2IC would never let that happen.

Honourary mention: Shane Jones vs Mark Antony – And what would a Caesar be without his Mark Antony? Enter Shane Jones, Peters’ loyal second-in-command, ever-ready to bolster the leader’s image and carry out his will with fervor. Antony, Caesar’s most trusted general, was known for his loyalty and ruthless action. Similarly, Jones has shown a willingness to take on anyone who stands in the way of Peters’ political vision, whether it’s through fiery speeches or aggressive policy pushes. Like Antony, he’s unafraid to play dirty to ensure the survival of his leader’s interests, even when the political winds shift.

Like Antony to Caesar, Jones often plays the role of enforcer and charismatic backup, ensuring Peters’ policies and pronouncements land with the right mix of charm and authority. Jones’ colorful persona and unapologetic rhetoric add an extra layer of theatrical flair to their partnership, echoing Antony’s historical reputation as both a loyal lieutenant and a figure who can stand out in his own right.

Jones’ ability to unite the base, wield influence, and push the party line is an undeniable force in the New Zealand political landscape—just as Mark Antony was in Rome. And like Antony, Jones is a formidable ally—someone who can easily turn into a political rival if the right opportunity presents itself.

The Messy Fallout: History’s Warning

Now, here’s the kicker. History may not repeat itself exactly, but it has a nasty habit of rhyming. The First Triumvirate might have seemed like a perfect power trio, but the internal tensions between Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus led to chaos, war, and the collapse of the Roman Republic. Crassus was killed in battle, Pompey was defeated by Caesar, and Caesar—well, you know how that went. Rome’s downfall was rapid and catastrophic, and it didn’t take much for their fragile alliance to fall apart.

Are we watching the same kind of slow-burn disaster unfold in Aotearoa? With Peters’ ambition, Seymour’s populist tactics, and Luxon’s uncertain leadership, the cracks are already starting to show, and recent national activations, particularly the Toitū Te Tiriti hīkoi can’t be helping things, and as history tells us, when the stakes are high, alliances in politics are often short-lived and the fallout could be just as dramatic as they were in Ancient Rome.

The Roman Triumvirate was a recipe for disaster, and while New Zealand’s political situation might not lead to war, we could very well see alliances fracture, rivals turn into enemies, and the nation’s political landscape shift in unpredictable ways.

Conclusion: Buckle Up, It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Ride

In the end, history is filled with lessons we often fail to heed. The First Triumvirate was a disastrous mix of ambition, egos, and fragile alliances, and the fallout set the stage for the end of the Roman Republic. Whether Aotearoa is heading down a similar path remains to be seen, but if the parallels are anything to go by, it’s going to get messy, and if we’re not careful, the same political cataclysm that shook Ancient Rome could very well happen here. So, sit back and enjoy the show—I’m sure someone, probably Rawiri Waititi, will be there to play guitar as it all burns down.

The moral of the story – Don’t drink iced coffee with your dinner, or risk falling in a rabbit hole and start waxing lyrical about the Roman empire, but that might just be me.