The imagined account with which this book opens is an attempt to tell a coherent and feasible story of what occurred while rejecting as little as possible of the surviving ancient narratives. It incorporates most, but not quite all, that the sources report. It plausibly assumes that all the leading players—Augustus, Tiberius, and Livia, together with their advisers—devised a transition plan and were determined ruthlessly to implement it, whatever their personal feelings.
The most important charges that I have rejected are that Augustus changed his mind about who should succeed him and wanted to replace Tiberius with Agrippa, and that Livia acted to defeat him. Both are highly unlikely. Once the princeps had committed himself to Tiberius, whatever his reservations, he did everything within his power to promote his new co-ruler’s interests. Even the minor decision to accompany him to Beneventum was a clear and public statement of support. In the absence of concrete knowledge, Roman historians filled in the gap by reference to the traditional image of the wicked stepmother, ever eager to supplant a true heir with her own child.
This does not mean that we have to reject the trip to Planasia. Modern scholars argue that Augustus was far too frail to undertake such an arduous journey, but this is unconvincing if we recall that in the days immediately before his death he was willing to travel by road to the Pomptine Marshes, sail to Capri and back to Italy, and then resume his journey to Beneventum, before retracing his steps.
Augustus’ motive for the journey may have been purely sentimental; but the record of the way he treated his close relatives suggests a ruthlessness that precluded emotion. More probably, as I suggested, he wanted to assess whether Agrippa was in an insurrectionary frame of mind, and to reduce the chance that he would join an anti-Tiberius plot by feeding him delusive hopes of a return to favor at Rome.
If that was how things stood, there was no particular need to keep Livia in the dark. But whether or not she knew of what was afoot, Augustus was annoyed with Fabius Maximus because, by confiding in his wife, he had breached the total secrecy that was meant to cover the operation—in much the same way that Maecenas’ gossiping to Terentia about her brother’s conspiracy had led to his loss of influence with the princeps. A high value was placed on confidentiality at the court of Augustus. (However, Marcia’s grief at her husband’s funeral did not necessarily mean he had committed suicide; disgrace could have triggered an illness, such as a heart attack.)
In the introductory chapter, I proposed that Augustus’ health unexpectedly improved, but that recovery came too late. According to this hypothesis, all the arrangements for the handover of power to Tiberius had been made and could not conveniently be revoked. It was necessary for him to die if the transition was not to falter. So, half in collusion with her victim, his loving wife, Livia, administered the poisoned figs. (Incidentally, we do know that the princeps liked the fruit, and that Livia cultivated a type of fig that was named after her; if there was a fig tree at Nola, perhaps she had had it planted.) Such a speculative explanation would account for her reported action, and accords with the gloomy sense of duty that characterized the political culture of the time. Roman history contains many examples of suicide for political reasons, and of assisted suicide.
Alternatively, and no less speculatively, it is possible that the story of the figs was a farrago invented and disseminated by people like Clemens and other populist agitators, to suggest mendaciously that Augustus did mean to designate Postumus as his true heir. Once again, the easy slander of Livia as the wicked stepmother dispensing poisoned fruit was too tempting to resist. It is puzzling, though, that a tale from so tainted and unrespectable a source should have had sufficient currency to enter the historical record. The truth of Augustus’ death will never be known.
Finally, we must consider who originated the order to kill Postumus. Suetonius sums up the options: “Some doubt remains whether this order was left by Augustus to be acted on when he died; or whether Livia wrote it in his name; or whether, if so, Tiberius knew anything about it.”
Sallustius can be acquitted, for even if he penned the codicillus, he will hardly have done so unprompted. Although Tiberius was the beneficiary, it is doubtful that he was involved, or had even been told about it. His angry insistence that Agrippa’s death be debated by the Senate argues innocence of both the deed and the knowledge.
Livia seems never to have directly intervened in politics or initiated political action, but she was known to wield influence. For Sallustius to ask her to use her good offices with Tiberius was a sensible idea, not necessarily sinister. That the commander reported to Tiberius rather than her also tends to exonerate her. It is conceivable that she forged a letter from the princeps, but from what we know of her this would have been out of character.
By far the most probable culprit was Augustus himself. It is true, as Tacitus points out, that he had never before had any of his blood relations executed, but we know that he could act unforgivingly against those of them who threatened him. He killed Caesarion, Julius Caesar’s illegitimate son, without a qualm, and treated the two Julias harshly. The visit to Planasia does suggest that he found the decision to kill his grandson difficult to make.
Augustus’ signet ring was removed from his finger. His eyes were closed. Tiberius, being his closest relative, called him by name and said, “Vale,” “Farewell.” Slaves belonging to undertakers washed and perfumed the corpse. A coin was placed in its mouth, to pay the ferryman to carry Augustus’ spirit across the river Styx to the underworld.
The body was carried to Rome on the shoulders of senators from the neighboring municipalities and colonies of veterans. The August heat was insupportable and the journey was conducted by night. In the daytime the dead man lay in state in the town hall or principal temple of each halting place.
At Rome, Augustus’ will was read out. The preamble ran: “Since fate has cruelly carried off my sons Gaius and Lucius, Tiberius shall inherit two thirds of my property”—a less than ringing endorsement of his chief heir. Tiberius received one hundred million sesterces, and Livia fifty million. Ninety million sesterces was set aside for small individual bequests to the soldiery and the people.
All of this was as might be expected. However, the princeps, so cautious and patient in his lifetime, sprang an astonishing surprise from beyond the grave: he adopted his wife. Just as Tiberius received the name of Augustus, so Livia received that of Augusta. As Augustus’ daughter, she became a member of the Julian clan, and from now on was known as Julia Augusta.
What did Augustus intend by this extraordinary promotion? It was the only important political decision he ever made that was completely without precedent, and he left no explanation for it. However, in the first instance, we may readily conclude that it signaled Livia’s contribution to the governance of the state during his reign. Everyone supposed she had been an important adviser behind the scenes, and the adoption was an official recognition of the fact. Augustus may also have wished to strengthen his wife’s position after his death, so that she could exert some control or at least influence over Tiberius; her political skills could complement his largely military experience. Perhaps, even, he wanted to show the world how deeply he loved his wife.
Now that Livia had become Julia Augusta, she had an official constitutional position in the state for the first time in her life. Although technically without imperium or anything approaching it, she seemed to contemporaries almost to be co-ruler with her son. During the Senate debates about decrees passed in Augustus’ honor, Dio reports that “she took a share in the proceedings, as if she possessed full powers.” It is said that for a time Tiberius’ correspondence carried her name as well as his, and letters were addressed to them both.
However, Tiberius held traditional views and disapproved of women openly intervening in public affairs. When the Senate voted her the honorific title of parens patriae, or parent of the fatherland, Tiberius rejected the offer on her behalf. It soon became clear that power lay with him alone, although,
despite his annoyance at her elevation, he continued to seek his mother’s advice in private.
The funeral of a leading Roman was an event that combined terror, splendor, and solemnity, and although we do not have the details of the order of service for Augustus, it will have broadly followed the regular procedure. As was always the case, the ceremony took place at night.
A procession formed to convey the body from the house on the Palatine to its last resting place. Almost the entire population of Rome turned out onto the streets, and troops lined the route to ensure public order. The procession was managed by a dominus funeris, or master of the funeral, attended by lictors dressed in black. It was headed by trumpeters playing mournful music, and girls and boys of the nobility sang a dirge in praise of the dead man.
Farce and laughter can be a means of purging grief, or at least alleviating it. A troupe of clowns and mimes was sometimes hired at funerals; the performers would follow the musicians and singers, led by an archimimus, who imitated the speech and gestures of the dead man.
Like most wealthy Romans, Augustus will have liberated some of his slaves in his will. They came next in the procession, wearing the special cap of liberty that was given to freedmen.
The bier then appeared. This was a couch made of ivory and gold and spread with a purple and gold pall. Beneath the covering, Augustus’ body was hidden in a coffin; above it, a wax effigy in triumphal costume was displayed. The bier was accompanied by a statue of the princeps in gold and another of him riding a triumphal chariot. Statues of his ancestors were also carried, as well as personified images of the nations he had added to the empire, and of leading Romans of the past. Interestingly, Pompey the Great was among the company, but Julius Caesar was excluded on the grounds of his divinity.
The family, dressed in mourning, walked behind, among them Julia Augusta. The entire Senate were in attendance, as were many equites, and the Praetorian Guard. Anybody who was anybody was present.
The cortège stopped in the Forum, where Tiberius and his son Drusus, both dressed in gray, delivered eulogies. It then wended its way through the Porta Triumphalis, the gate through which triumphal processions entered the city, and arrived at Augustus’ mausoleum in the Campus Martius. The awe-inspiring climax of the ceremony approached.
In the early Republic, Romans were usually buried, but by the end of the first century B.C. almost everyone was cremated. Augustus’ body was laid on a pyre in the ustrinum, or crematorium, next to the mausoleum. Once the bier was in place, all Rome’s priests marched around it, followed by the equites. Then the Praetorian Guard circled it at a run and threw on the pyre all the triumphal decorations (often valuable silver or gold plaques) any of them had received from the princeps in recognition of acts of valor.
Centurions lit the pyre, and as the flames rose an eagle was released and flew up into the sky, as if bearing Augustus’ spirit into the heavens. A former praetor, presumably a man with an eye for the main chance, solemnly swore that he saw the spirit of the princeps on its journey upward. Julia Augusta rewarded his sharpness of sight with the huge sum of one million sesterces.
Perfume was thrown onto the fire, as well as things that the dead man would have enjoyed—cups of oil, clothes, and dishes of food. The ghosts of the dead, the manes, liked to drink blood, which reinvigorated them; this may have been supplied by gladiators, who were often hired to fight at funerals, their duels lit up by the flames.
When the fire had burned out, wine was poured over the embers. A priest purified those present from the taint of death by sprinkling water over them with a laurel or olive branch. The mourners were then dismissed, each of them saying “Vale” as he or she left the scene.
Eventually, only one person was left beside the ashes—Julia Augusta, widow and now daughter of the dead princeps. The old lady remained where she was for five days. Then, attended by leading equites, who were barefoot and wore unbelted tunics, she collected the bones and lodged them in the mausoleum.
INTO THE FUTURE
* * *
Making a show of reluctance before the Senate, Tiberius assumed full powers and authority. Broadly, the new emperor maintained Augustus’ policies. However, the divine family became increasingly dysfunctional. Livia, or Julia Augusta as she now was, got on badly with her son once he became emperor. Although he admired her sagacity, he was irritated by the fact that she was credited with having made him emperor. In A.D. 26, Tiberius abandoned Rome for Capri off the Bay of Naples, where he spent the rest of his reign; his mother was probably one of the reasons for his second and final self-exile.
Germanicus was given a commission in the east, but died in A.D. 19 at the age of thirty-four, perhaps from poisoning (as usual, Livia was blamed). In A.D. 23 his contemporary, Tiberius’ son Drusus, also died; he may have been a victim of the emperor’s scheming favorite, Lucius Aelius Sejanus, but more probably of an epidemic raging in Rome that year.
The elder Julia did not long outlive her unforgiving father, dying in A.D. 14 at Rhegium. Postumus’ death removed her last hope of recall. According to Tacitus, Tiberius pitilessly “let her waste away to death, exiled and disgraced, by slow starvation. He calculated that she had been banished for so long that her death would pass unnoticed.”
The younger Julia never left her little island in the sun, and died some twenty years after her enraged grandfather had sent her there. Her lover, Silanus, was more fortunate. He was allowed to return to Rome in A.D. 20; Tiberius remarked quizzically that he was gratified that Silanus should return from his “pilgrimage to far lands.”
As for Ovid, Tiberius and Livia turned a deaf ear to his pleas for a reprieve. He cultivated the young Germanicus, but to no avail. In A.D. 17 he died among his barbarians at Tomis. He asked that he be buried near his beloved city, Rome, and one can hope, but without much confidence, that this last wish was granted.
Livia died in A.D. 29 at the considerable age of eighty-six. Tiberius outlasted her only by eight years, and expired old and lonely in his island retreat in A.D. 37. He was alleged to have spent his last years engaged in elaborate pedophiliac pursuits.
Germanicus’ son Gaius, nicknamed Little Boots, Caligula, by the troops when he was a small child, succeeded to the purple. Although intelligent, Caligula made poor decisions and almost certainly suffered from severe mental illness. Unkind gossip had it that he wanted to make his favorite horse a consul. He played practical jokes on his guards, who eventually lost their sense of humor and assassinated him, in A.D. 41.
For many years Drusus’ lame son, Claudius, continued to be ignored. He lived quietly and lazily, moving between a suburban mansion and a villa in the country. Augustus left him the insulting sum of four thousand sesterces in his will, and Tiberius declined to employ him. He divided his time between drinking and gambling with low-life acquaintances, and writing copiously. He published an autobiography, a defense of Cicero, and an authoritative history of the Etruscans.
Claudius was more or less forgotten until brought to court by the emperor Caligula, who treated him as an unpaid clown. When Caligula was assassinated, Praetorian Guardsmen found Claudius hiding behind a curtain in the palace, took him to their camp, and hailed him as emperor. A nervous Senate agreed.
To general surprise, Claudius turned out to be rather a good emperor. He annexed the remote island of Britannia to the Roman empire. Despite the fact that the long dead Livia had made his early life a misery, he generously arranged for her deification.
Claudius had bad luck with his wives. The beautiful and wayward Messalina shared the elder Julia’s taste for lively parties in the Forum where she mixed sex with politics. Her cuckolded husband reluctantly put her to death.
Messalina was followed by Germanicus’ strong-minded daughter Agrippina, who persuaded Claudius to adopt her son Nero, and in A.D. 54 killed the gourmand emperor with a dish of delicious but poisoned (or perhaps poisonous) mushrooms.
In A.D. 15, Germanicus led an army across the Rhine and visited the battle sites w
here Varus lost his legions and his life. Tacitus gave an unforgettable description of the eerie scene:
On the open ground were whitening bones, scattered where men had fled, heaped up where they had stood and fought back. Fragments of spears and of horses’ limbs lay there—also human heads, fastened to tree-trunks. In groves nearby were the outlandish altars at which the Germans had massacred the Roman colonels and senior company-commanders.
The Romans never again attempted to expand their territory beyond the Rhine, and excitable historians in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have argued that we owe to the Variana clades the millennia-long division of Europe into two parts—one touched by Rome, the other not: Britain and the Romance countries, and the Teutonic peoples of central and northern Europe. If Augustus had had his way and brought the frontier of his empire to the Elbe, there would have been “no Charlemagne, no Louis XIV, no Napoleon, no Kaiser Wilhelm II, and no Hitler.”
This binary approach to European history oversimplifies a complicated story. The distance between the Rhine and the Elbe is not so great as to have brought about such dizzying consequences. Also, we must not forget that Roman culture spread its influence far beyond the imperial lands themselves. Rome’s true inheritor, the Roman Catholic Church, was able to create a unified Europe that stretched from the Atlantic to the Urals, the culture of Christendom.
That said, the massacre at Kalkriese did mark a turning point in the history of Rome. With a few exceptions, such as the ephemeral conquests of the emperor Trajan in the second century A.D., the empire had more or less reached its natural extent by the death of Augustus. Rome’s military and administrative capacity did not allow it to govern a larger territory.
There was much discussion at Rome about the late Augustus’ virtues and vices. It was elegantly summarized by Tacitus:
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