69 AD: The Year of Four Emperors

by Gwyn Morgan

  Tacitus omits all reference to the envoys’ misadventures and Caecina’s gesture. He dwells on the way the rankers from the two armies fraternized after agreement had been reached. They bewailed the evils of civil war, mourned for their dead kinfolk, and gave honorable burial to Orfidius Benignus, the valiant commander of I Adiutrix. His account is as melodramatic as Plutarch’s, but it makes a serious point. Plutarch is captivated by the picturesque, but Tacitus stresses the fact that this was the first major battle between Roman troops in the first unquestionably civil war since Nero’s death—and a bloody affair it was. True, this enables him to draw attention to the horrors that continuing the fight would have inflicted on both sides, and so to the boon Otho conferred on the survivors by ending his life. But this was reasonable. Whatever the Othonians at Bedriacum felt, those at Brixellum were not ready to surrender. There would have been more slaughter and suffering, had Otho not committed suicide at dawn that same morning, so ending the campaign and, with it, the war.

  7

  The Reign of Vitellius (April to September 69)

  Otho’s suicide ought to be treated—so some might think—as the last event in his reign. It was his final act as emperor and, since he ended his life before he heard the news of the surrender at Bedriacum, it also marked the high point of that reign, setting up the paradox over which both contemporaries and posterity would puzzle, that “nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” Tacitus certainly reports it in this manner, but not only in this manner. He has already set a passage immediately after his obituary for Galba, in which he describes the reactions of Rome’s inhabitants—senators, knights, and common people—to the prospect of choosing between Otho and Vitellius. Nobody, he asserts, could see themselves going to the temples to pray for the safety of either man. They were the vilest of mortals, seemingly picked by the fates to destroy the empire. In fact, “the one thing you could expect to learn from a war between them was that the victor would be the worse.” This makes Otho’s suicide as much a beginning as an end, and Tacitus builds it up programmatically, to overshadow the reign of his successor, a man who, in Tacitus’ opinion, ought never to have become emperor.

  As Tacitus tells the story, Otho must have committed suicide at dawn on 16 April, after he heard the news of the defeat of his troops at Bedriacum, but before he learnt or could learn that the survivors were going to surrender.1 In one sense this detail is not as significant as it may appear. The soldiers who straggled in from the battle, after all, cannot have held out much hope. And Otho could not expect Vitellius to spare his life, even if clemency was extended—as it was—to each and every one of his generals. The senators who could claim to have been following orders, like Suetonius Paulinus, Marius Celsus, Annius Gallus, and Flavius Sabinus, were not the only ones to benefit. So too did close associates like the two prefects of the praetorian guard, Licinius Proculus and Plotius Firmus, and even Otho’s brother Salvius Titianus. Yet aside from Plotius Firmus, who was already with the emperor, none of these men made their way to Brixellum after the battle. Three of them, Celsus, Gallus, and Titianus, found it necessary (or convenient) to oversee the surrender at Bedriacum. Sabinus returned to Placentia to wait on events, since one praetorian cohort was still there. And Paulinus and Proculus made themselves scarce, reappearing in the record only to grovel before Vitellius a month or so later. In effect, Otho was deserted by his generals.

  Since Tacitus insists that when the first stragglers from the battle reached Brixellum late on 15 April, Otho had already made up his mind to commit suicide if his troops lost the battle, and had done so fearlessly and calmly, there is clearly no direct link between Otho’s decision and his being abandoned by his generals. But if we see their action, accidental or deliberate, as another stage in the conflict of opinions the council of war had not resolved, it is easier to understand why Otho refused to fall back on Aquileia, and to use the Balkan troops to fight again. This was the course the praetorians at Brixellum urged on him, while the cavalry squadron that had arrived from Moesia claimed (falsely, as they could not know it) that their legions had already reached Aquileia, with the result—says Tacitus—that “nobody can doubt that the fighting could have been resumed, cruel, grim and perilous to victors and vanquished alike.”2 Otho clearly disagreed with this conclusion, and his reasons are easy to see: he had run through the generals at his disposal; he did not expect to find competent or devoted replacements among the Balkan troops still on their way to Italy; and he recognized that he lacked the ability to take command personally.

  This in no way devalues the stories that Otho had not wanted to fight in the first place. Whether or not we believe Suetonius’ story that during the campaign Otho shuddered whenever the names of Brutus and Cassius were brought up in conversation, he had tried to negotiate with Vitellius before the march north. Nor had he ever been so much the prisoner of his troops that he could not have backed down. But there was a major difference between the situation before the campaign of Bedriacum began and the situation after it was launched. Earlier, as emerges from the speeches Tacitus gives him, Otho refused to accept “a secret of empire, that an emperor could be made elsewhere than in Rome.” In Otho’s eyes, Vitellius had started the civil war, and the fact that his uprising had begun two full weeks before Galba’s assassination made no odds. Vitellius was a rebel, because he had not been proclaimed emperor in Rome, nor had his elevation to the principate been ratified by the senate. Otho, as the legitimate emperor, had every reason to campaign against him at first. But once the war got under way, Otho faced two choices if the battle went against him: he could continue to defend his legitimate right to the throne or he could bow to reality, renounce his powers, and by proclaiming that he was doing so in hopes of ending the bloodshed, prove the nobler as well as the braver of the two contenders.

  Viewed in this light, Otho’s suicide becomes an exercise in public relations, and that is why it is misguided to reject Tacitus’ statement that Otho made his decision not only before the battle but fearlessly and calmly too or, failing that, to dismiss his account as too melodramatic. If we adopt Plutarch’s picture of Otho as a hysterical coward, we destroy the paradox that entranced the Romans. Nor is much gained by accepting Suetonius’ portrait of Otho as an impetuous gambler, willing to stake all and, if luck turned against him, to lose all. For one thing, he undercuts Otho’s action by asserting that the suicide of a straggler from Bedriacum inspired the emperor to take his own life. For another, Otho had not staked all, so long as there were troops he could call on. Third, on Suetonius’ scenario too, Otho’s suicide would never have fascinated later generations of Romans as comprehensively as it did. Like Nero’s, it would have been dismissed as a matter of little consequence. The fascination, in short, rested on the conviction to which Tacitus gives voice, that Otho’s suicide was the result of a calculated and cold-blooded decision, and so the action of a truly brave man.3 It may look melodramatic, but that does not make it unhistorical. It was Otho who staged the drama, not the ancient sources. Schooled in role-playing by his years as a courtier, Otho knew that he had to give the performance of his life.

  Obviously, he would not have publicized his decision before the battle was fought. But once the bad news arrived from Bedriacum, first as rumor and then as hard evidence provided by stragglers, the troops at Brixellum had the wit to recognize that there was now a distinct likelihood that Otho would end his life. So they urged him not to lose heart. Not only were reinforcements on the way, but they themselves were willing to fight to the last. Tacitus emphasizes that these protestations were entirely sincere, and Plutarch too concedes that “the feelings of his soldiers toward him passed all belief.” Supposedly, Plotius Firmus, the prefect of the guard, went further still, arguing—according to Tacitus—that Otho should not desert so loyal an army. Since it was braver to bear adversity than to yield to it, cowards alone were driven by panic to despair. But this may be only a hook on which to hang the speech Tacitus has Otho make to calm the
soldiery. We have three versions of it, one each from Plutarch, Tacitus, and Dio, and all of them credit Otho with much the same sentiments, though the wording (for once) shows few resemblances. Of the three Tacitus’ is by far the most illuminating. It is built around a rival definition of bravery, that refusing to continue the fight is no less glorious and brave.

  To expose men of your spirit and courage to further danger I think too high a price to pay for my life. The more hope you hold out to me, the more glorious my death becomes. We have gotten to know each other, Fortune and I, and you should not discount the shortness of my reign. For when you know that you will not enjoy your good fortune for long, it is more difficult to show restraint. Vitellius began this civil war by forcing us to fight for the throne. I will end it, by ensuring that we fight no more than once. Let this be how posterity judges me. Let Vitellius take delight in his kinfolk: I seek neither revenge nor consolation for my defeat [i.e., by taking reprisals against his family]. Others may have reigned longer, but none will relinquish his power so bravely. You cannot expect me to allow the flower of Rome’s youth, so many splendid army units, to shed their blood a second time. Let me carry away with me the thought that you were ready to die for me, but survive you must. No more delay! I must not endanger your safety, nor you impede my decision. To dwell on one’s last moments is a coward’s way. The ultimate proof of my determination is that I make no complaints. To find fault with gods or men is the behavior of one who would prefer to go on living.

  Whether this was or was not the speech Otho gave, two points are worth noting. First, there is the remark that “when you know that you will not enjoy your good fortune for any length of time, it is more difficult to show restraint.” This has been turned into a statement that at some stage Otho must have realized that he would not remain emperor long, and so has become the basis for claims that Otho had recognized the folly of his bid for power much earlier. The comment cannot carry this kind of weight. Otho is talking about the present, not the past. He is setting up the thesis that showing self-control when there is nothing to gain is the acid test of character, self-control he is showing by refusing even to take reprisals against the members of Vitellius’ family. Far from asserting that he has long felt this way, he is putting the best face on the brevity of his reign, and that reign he will end now without dragging anybody else, friend or foe, down to destruction.

  Second, when Otho tells his troops that he wants posterity to judge him by this renunciation, it is not in the hope that this will somehow obscure or cancel out the murder of Galba. Neither he nor the Greco-Roman sources who report his actions believed in redemption. Zonaras’ summary of Dio may assert that “the manner of Otho’s death eclipsed the impiousness and wickedness of his life,” but Zonaras was a Christian monk who imported an alien idea into Dio’s account. In fact, it had been Otho’s view all along that murdering his predecessor was justifiable, and he never changed his mind about that. But just as he had recognized in the past that he had to conciliate and reassure those who held different views, so now he acknowledged that he must shoulder the responsibility for his own actions—and the most effective way to do that was to set up a balance between the assassination of Galba and his own suicide. Then, as Tacitus puts it, he would “win as much praise among succeeding generations as he had gained opprobrium among his contemporaries for the murder.” By showing that he was capable of the best as well as the worst of acts, he could guarantee that he would be judged favorably—if only for one action—by later generations, the aim of every Roman aristocrat, and that by setting this against the murder of his predecessor he would create a paradox that would never cease to fascinate those later generations.

  Whatever Otho actually said in his speech, he next summoned his friends individually, treating all alike in kindly fashion but urging them to leave rather than bring down the victors’ anger on their heads. Firmly but placidly resisting their entreaties to change his mind, he ordered boats and carriages found for them. He destroyed incriminating correspondence (this was traditional behavior also). And he distributed what money he had left to his slaves and freedmen sparingly, here too showing the restraint expected of a man who had made a rational decision. Later, supposedly, he reassured his nephew Salvius Cocceianus, Titianus’ son whom—so Plutarch says—he had planned to adopt as his heir once the war was over. Telling the boy that he should neither fear for his own life nor grieve over his uncle’s decision, Otho pointed out that Vitellius would not kill Cocceianus when he himself had spared Vitellius’ kin, and that the boy should be grateful to Otho for setting the family in the forefront of the aristocracy. The boy should go on with his life, neither forgetting Otho nor yet remembering him too well—a piece of advice Tacitus may have added to the story, because he knew that Cocceianus would be killed by Domitian in the early 90s, as Suetonius alleges, for celebrating Otho’s birthday too enthusiastically.

  After dismissing everybody Otho took a rest. Tacitus states that he wanted to compose himself for death, but Suetonius has him writing letters, one to console his sister, and one exhorting Statilia Messallina to cherish his memory. Statilia had been Nero’s third wife and Suetonius asserts that Otho had contemplated marrying her, but what he would have gained by this if he was going to adopt Cocceianus is unclear. A sudden uproar in the camp interrupted his meditations. The troops were making threats against the dignitaries trying to leave, and they even blockaded Verginius Rufus in his billet. Rebuking the men, Otho returned to his quarters and spent time in conversations with those who were leaving, until he was assured that all could get away safely. Yet Verginius stayed, possibly by choice. As Otho had designated him suffect consul for March and April, he may have imagined that he had some kind of official standing and so should remain, but Plutarch claims that the troops refused to let him depart.

  By now it was evening. Yet Otho continued to exercise rigorous self-control. Instead of wining and dining too well, as a Nero or a Vitellius might have, he took only a drink of ice-cold water, and then, after being brought two daggers, chose one and put it under his pillow. When he had been reassured again that his friends had left, he went to bed, sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly.4 He awoke at first light and with a single, firm stroke drove the dagger unhesitatingly into his heart. His freedmen and slaves, posted outside the bedroom, rushed in as soon as they heard the one groan he made, and along with the prefect Plotius Firmus immediately began preparations for his funeral. Although it was customary for a body to lie in state for several days, Otho had insisted that he be cremated without delay, so that there would be no corpse for the enemy to seize and mutilate. The praetorian cohorts carried his body to the funeral pyre, some loud in their praises, some in tears, and some kissing his hands, his feet, and even the wound. Once the corpse had been placed on the pyre, so Tacitus says, some of the soldiers committed suicide alongside it, both because they wanted to emulate his glorious act and from love for him. Nor did this happen only at Brixellum, he goes on. There were suicides at Bedriacum, at Placentia, and in every other camp where Othonians were to be found.

  Tacitus is content to observe that Otho’s grave was modest and so destined to survive. Suetonius, by contrast, uses that detail to report Vitellius’ reaction to the sight of it, and to illustrate how petty-minded the victor was. For Vitellius declared it a little tomb, fit for a little man, and sent the dagger his rival had used to kill himself to Colonia Agrippinensis (Cologne, his former HQ) to be dedicated in the temple to Mars. The story is probably true. Vitellius was given to blunt and tactless remarks, but since Tacitus omits comments he thinks in bad taste, he uses mention of the grave to introduce Otho’s necrology. Then, after some coughing and spluttering, seemingly designed to emphasize an episode that scarcely deserves it, he tells the story of a bird, of a type never seen before, that took up its perch in a crowded grove at Regium Lepidum (Reggio), 17 miles southeast of Brixellum on the day of the battle. The bird, he declares, was entirely unperturbed by the people and the other birds
that flocked around it, and kept its position until the moment Otho killed himself. Then it disappeared from sight for ever more. This was taken as an omen, though an omen of what Tacitus does not say. Why, then, does he report it? The likeliest explanation is literary and symbolic: the bird was supposed to mark the end of the fighting between Otho and Vitellius, just as the eagle that had accompanied Valens’ column on the first day of its march had marked its start. Suetonius too finds a bird omen to balance Valens’ eagle, but his tale concerns Vitellius.

  The funeral was followed by another uproar. According to Plutarch, in his last surviving contribution to our story, this one was triggered by the prefect Plotius Firmus. When emotions were running so high, he might have done better to wait, but he tried to administer to the troops the oath of allegiance to Vitellius. Unlike the men at Bedriacum, the Othonians at Brixellum balked. They turned to Verginius since he had still not left, or had not been allowed to leave, the camp. While some urged him to bid for the throne again, others asked only that he serve as their emissary to the Vitellians. He ducked both assignments, slipping away through the back door of his quarters, presumably in disguise. To save the man’s dignity, Plutarch declares that Verginius thought it “insane” to accept from a defeated army a throne he had refused from a victorious one, and feared to negotiate with legions “he had often forced to act contrary to their wishes.” So Rubrius Gallus, a much more flexible personality, pleaded the troops’ case, and pardon was granted forthwith. In the same way, the men at Placentia were pardoned through the intercession of their commander, Flavius Sabinus.