I recently read to my two small children for the first time a Prometheus Hall of Fame Award-winning story. As they are only two and five years old, its understandably not a major novel, but instead the timeless tale of power exposed, Hans Christian Anderson's “The Emperor's New Clothes.” Theodore Judson's new novel reminds me in some ways of this story, as it is a tale of the abuse of power, and how some simple people see through this power and emerge unaffected by the pomp and glory around which power surrounds itself.

Theodore Judson's The Martian General's Daughter is not a libertarian novel per se, nor a novel about liberty. Rather, it's a story about the vast and absolute corrupting forces of power, and the rapid collapse of seemingly eternal edifices of state. It is a well-known parable, one that historians and pundits constantly raise. Mention the word “empire” (as is often done these days in reference to the United States, especially after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the emergence of America as the lone super-power after the Cold War), and instantly people will point to the Roman Empire, its decline and fall, and note how America is going through the same motions of that once massive force and state nearly two thousand years ago.

If history does indeed repeat itself, then the historian and writers who see empire in America are a mere two years too early. For in Judson's novel the allusions to Roman history are not just an outline, but a near mirror-image. So much, that at times it distracted me from the excellent writing style and compelling characters—for make no mistake, this is a well-written book that I read almost straight through without a break.

Ostensibly the book is a tale about a world without morals, an honest man and his intelligent yet nearly invisible daughter (in many respects it's as if the novel did take place in 180 AD, not 2293 AD, with its rampant sexism and lack of concern for individual rights). Judson's empire is not contained within America's borders, but rather a global one that spans Europe, America, and parts of Asia.

The almost nakedly slavish inspiration here starts with Marcus Aurelius, one of the so-called last good emperors. He also was a stoic philosopher, just like the emperor in Judson's book. Both fought wars in Asia as invaders sought to weaken the empires. Both returned from Asia with plagues—the difference is that the modern-day version brought back a plague that affected machines, while the original carried back one that killed several million humans. Both made their sons co-emperors at an early age, and both sons were completely unsuited to rule—they were egotistical, unbalanced, and elevated to their position in their late teens. Both emperors died from the plagues, and once their sons took over, it was the beginning of the fall. Indeed, there are so many similarities it's as if the characters from 2000 years ago were resurrected and invited to a repeat performance.

By far the most compelling character in the novel is that of the narrator, Justa Black. The book's title is evocative, but misleading, as they are on Mars but for a short period, and that planet plays no role in the book. She spent far more time on Earth. The title hardly suits the novel. Alternating between her childhood and the present, we see Justa's role grow from that of a precocious embarrassment to her father, to that of his confidant and aide-de-camp. General Black himself, the so-called last honest man, is more of a simple soldier. He is good at what he does, loyal to a fault, but unable to see the ruin and rot around him. Perhaps he survives because of this trait, not in spite of it, but without his daughter at his side not even that could have helped him.

Libertarians will find in this novel a cynical portrayal of power. Perhaps readers will wonder and marvel as I did at how people in our day and age can remain unmoved to revolt and revulsion at how their rulers show no regard for the lives of their subjects. When thousands are murdered at a classic Roman spectacle, it is a mere blip—bread and circuses indeed. Still, despite my admiration for Judson as a capable writer of words, I felt distracted and perhaps somewhat cheated at the utter and near-complete imitation of historical persons and events. It's almost as if the book should have come with a warning label, like Hollywood movies that take the title of a book and then change everything, then label it as “based on the story by...” This is a clone of a novel, which, had it but taken the general elements, would have been far more powerful.