It was now every man for himself. Some soldiers followed Varus’ example; others simply lost heart, dropped their weapons, and allowed themselves to be slaughtered by the enemy.
Of the three legions’ fifteen thousand men, few survived to tell the tale. The Germans took about fifteen hundred prisoners, of whom two thirds were sold into slavery; a number of them eventually won their freedom and made their way back to Italy. The remainder were sacrificed as religious offerings. They were put to death in different ways; some had their throats cut, while others were hanged from trees, crucified, or buried alive. The German gods appreciated variety. Victims’ heads were nailed to trees in the forest as a warning to any intending invasion in the future. Once they had exacted their punishments and removed their dead, the Germans left the scenes of battle as they were, for time and nature slowly to restore and conceal.
News that something terrible had happened percolated through the region, and all but one of the Roman fortresses on the eastern side of the Rhine were hastily evacuated. The “province” of Germania was lost.
Augustus was in his early seventies. He had been working at full stretch for fifty years and the last decade had been crammed with personal disappointment and political trouble. He no longer dealt with individual petitions, although with the help of assistants he still investigated legal suits and passed judgment, seated on a tribunal at his headquarters on the Palatine Hill. He gave up attending Senate meetings or people’s assemblies, and entrusted the reception of foreign delegations to a trio of former consuls.
Like the outbreak of the Pannonian rebellion, the Varus disaster (in Latin, Variana clades) seemed to make the princeps briefly panic. He tore his clothes, as was the Roman custom when a man was facing shame and catastrophe, and did not shave for months. He was so upset that he would beat his head against a door, crying out: “Quinctilius Varus, give me back my legions!” He kept the anniversary as a day of deep mourning.
A record survives of an aged diva being brought back to the stage in A.D. 9 during celebrations to congratulate the princeps on “his recovery”; this reveals that he had been ill, although we know nothing about the nature of his condition or its gravity. It could have been a reaction to the loss of his legions.
Augustus sent Tiberius to take over the Rhine command, to counter any German invasion of Gaul or even Italy, and to demonstrate that Rome’s military power was undiminished. At home he feared a popular uprising and sent military patrols around the city at night. Not trusting the Germans in his bodyguard, he sent them to various islands; he also deported the large Gallic and German community from the city. The terms of service of provincial governors were extended so that experienced men were in place to cope with any trouble.
The emergency exposed a serious potential weakness of Augustus’ military strategy. Ever since his victory over Antony and Cleopatra, he had set the empire’s military strength at twenty-eight legions, but this was only just sufficient to man the frontiers. There were no soldiers left over to form a mobile field army that could move quickly to a crisis point.
But the emergency soon passed. Arminius did not invade Gaul; Rome and the provinces remained tranquil. The indispensable Tiberius did what was required on the northeastern frontier, where he campaigned for three more years. However, he made no attempt to recover Germania as a Roman province, and the empire was never again to reach beyond the Rhine.
Had the regime really been at risk? Augustus’ alarm reflected an innate caution. But also, for all the sonorous rhetoric about the restored Republic, his power essentially depended not on constitutional legality but on the support of the army and the people. If that was withdrawn, his day would soon be done. And imperial success was essential to the regime’s popularity; indeed, the only event likely to shake the loyalty of either constituency was a major military defeat.
So it was reasonable to predict that the loss of three legions would entail serious political consequences. That it did not do so may owe something to the security measures that the princeps took, but is better seen as evidence that Augustus’ constitutional settlement was firmly established. No oppositional grouping existed that was ready and able to exploit the situation.
For all that, the Variana clades was a real and substantial setback, which provoked a strategic review behind closed doors on the Palatine. The aggressive plan to settle Germania up to the Elbe, which we may guess Agrippa and Augustus to have devised twenty years previously, was revoked. From now on the Rhine was to be the permanent boundary between Romanized Gaul and the barbarians of central Europe.
The change was rational, based on close observation of the realities in both Rome and Germany. Arminius’ failure to exploit his victory suggested that the Germans no longer presented a serious threat to the stability of Gaul, if they ever really had. As always, they were unable to combine in an alliance for any length of time. It simply was not worth going to the trouble and expense of reinstalling the province of Germania. Reconnoitering and occasional punitive expeditions would be enough to ward off any risk of attack.
In A.D. 12, the twenty-seven-year-old Germanicus held the consulship, but if there were expectations of a return to optimism they were disappointed. Although he was busy in the law courts, he achieved nothing of importance.
Augustus wrote a letter commending Germanicus to the Senate, and the Senate to Tiberius. His physical energy was waning and he did not read it out himself, for he could not make himself heard, but instead handed the document to Germanicus to read. Taking the war in Germany (now drawing to a close) as his excuse, he asked senators to forgo attending the morning salutatio at his house on the Palatine Hill, and not to feel offended if he no longer attended public banquets.
Natural disaster struck again: the Tiber burst its banks and the Circus Maximus was flooded. For the first time we hear of seditious literature being burned and the authors punished. Probably in this year, a well-known advocate in the courts, Cassius Severus, was banished to Crete for having “blackened the characters of men and women of the highest status by licentious writings.” The princeps had not been the target, but, also for the first time, this kind of offense was dealt with under the treason law. Also, the Senate burned the “republicanist” writings of a historian, who committed suicide.
These reactionary moves strike a new, disturbing note, for one of the regime’s more attractive traits in earlier years had been its acceptance, if not its endorsement, of free speech. An easy self-confidence had given way to anxiety. Perhaps this reflects the growing influence of Tiberius, who, despite his possible republican sympathies, had long been of an authoritarian cast of mind. Years before, Augustus had written to him: “You must not…take it to heart if anyone speaks ill of me: let us be satisfied if we can make people stop short at unkind words.”
In the following year, A.D. 13, Augustus’ imperium was optimistically extended for a further ten years, and (yet another first) Tiberius, now fifty-six, received equal powers. Even if old age was slowing him down, the princeps remained hardworking, busy, and clever. The 5 percent death duty introduced in A.D. 6 proved extremely unpopular among the upper classes. The Senate indicated that it would accept any impost except for the death duty, so Augustus set in motion plans for a land tax instead. He was well aware that that would present an even more alarming prospect; and indeed the Senate decided it would be best to stick to the devil they knew. The old manipulator had lost none of his skill.
Thoughts of death can never have been far from Augustus’ mind throughout his long life: his health was poor in the first half of his career; until Actium, he regularly ran the risk of being killed in battle; and in Rome he was sharply aware that the Ides of March set a baleful precedent. He was only in his mid-thirties when he commissioned his splendid mausoleum.
Now certainty replaced possibility. In April of A.D. 13, Augustus assembled a number of documents, describing the achievements of his reign and leaving various instructions; it may be that a deterioration in his health prom
pted him to take this step. The documents were mostly written in his own hand, although his office staff will have done the research. In one sealed roll, he gave directions for his funeral. In another, he set out his record, which he wished to have engraved on two bronze columns at the entrance to his mausoleum. The princeps did not write the text all at once, but in his orderly way had begun it years previously and added to it from time to time; he only finally signed it off on May 13, A.D. 14.
Written in plain, dignified Latin, this second document became known as the Acts of the Deified Augustus, or Res Gestae Divi Augusti; copies were posted in different cities in the empire (translated into Greek where appropriate).
The Res Gestae is an astute piece of writing, of which a modern manager of public opinion could be proud; for while he tells no outright lies, Augustus casts the most favorable possible light on his activities. He never once mentions Mark Antony by name, whether as fellow triumvir or military enemy; nor does he go into any detail about his revolutionary past—it is as if the proscription never happened.
The third document Augustus prepared at this time, the breviarium imperii, was a statement of the number of serving troops in different parts of the empire, the reserves in the public exchequer and in the privy purse, and the tax revenues due for collection; he also supplied the names of the freedmen and slave secretaries who would be able to furnish further particulars under each heading, on demand.
Augustus also composed a homily directed at both Tiberius and the people, in which he advised them, among other things, to stay within the empire’s current boundaries. This injunction partly reflected the success of his policy of imperial expansion along the Danube and partly the new chastened acceptance of the Rhine as the appropriate barrier between Gaul and the Germanic tribes.
Finally, the princeps wrote (or revised) his will, complex and surprising; it took up two notebooks and was penned partly in his hand and partly by two freedmen. He arranged for its deposit at the Temple of the Vestal Virgins; unlike the hapless Mark Antony, he was confident there would be no latter-day Octavian so bold as to open it before he was dead and buried.
Sometime during A.D. 13, Augustus strengthened the standing committee that he had created to expedite senatorial business. The consuls remained members, but all the other nominated officeholders were replaced by consuls designated for future years. Tiberius, Tiberius’ son Drusus, and Germanicus also joined the committee. It looks very much as if the aim was to create a body strong enough to cope with the strains of transition from one reign to another.
Augustus’ final months are surrounded by mystery. As in a detective novel, the reader is given too few facts with which to explain events and identify culprits. Much depends on intelligent guesswork and the interpretation of cryptic clues. The trouble is that this was real life, with no author to write a final chapter in which all is made clear.
In the late spring or early summer of A.D. 14, Augustus came to feel regret for Agrippa Postumus’ exile. Taking a very few people into his confidence, he sailed to the island of Planasia, accompanied only by a court intimate, Paullus Fabius Maximus. Fabius was a distinguished figure, who had served as consul and governor in Spain. He was also a patron of the arts and had been a close friend of Horace and (a little surprisingly) Ovid. Tacitus reports on the encounter: “There [on Planasia] tears and signs of affection on both sides had been plentiful enough to raise a hope that the young man might yet be restored to the house of his grandfather.”
Soon after their return, Fabius died, but not before having told his wife, Marcia, of the secret adventure, and she incautiously passed on the news to Livia. At her husband’s funeral, Marcia was heard to sob bitterly that she had been the cause of his destruction. The implication was that, learning of this breach of confidence, an angry Augustus had withdrawn his amicitia from Fabius, who as a result felt obliged to commit suicide.
Augustus’ last days are described at some length by Suetonius. In August A.D. 14, he and Tiberius prepared to leave Rome. They had recently conducted a census, which was held once every lustrum, or five years, and the princeps, despite his fading health, was well enough to preside over a purification of the Roman people that marked the end of the lustrum. The ceremony took place in a crowded Campus Martius.
All kinds of portent were recorded about this time—the usual melange of nonsense with, on this occasion, an actual event inflected by superstition. During the ritual, an eagle circled overhead several times and flew to the nearby Pantheon, where it perched above the first “A” of Agrippa’s name in the dedication over the entrance. The princeps, seeing this, immediately took it to signify his imminent demise. So he told Tiberius to read out in his place the vows he was due to take as part of the ritual, for although he had composed them and had had them inscribed on a tablet, he did not want to make himself responsible for promises that could only be discharged after his death.
Tiberius was to travel to Illyricum and reorganize the recently vanquished province; Augustus, as a mark of signal favor, agreed to accompany him down the Via Appia as far as the town of Beneventum, about 130 miles south of Rome. Livia was in the party. Before arriving at the mosquito-ridden Pomptine Marshes, through which Horace and Maecenas had journeyed on their way to Tarentum for negotiations with Mark Antony, the princeps decided to transfer to a ship, but became indisposed and decided to detour to the island of Capri for a few days’ rest and relaxation.
The party then crossed back to Italy and resumed its journey south. As planned, Augustus turned back at Beneventum to make his way to Rome but, feeling worse, instead stopped off at a family villa at Nola on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, where his father, Gaius Octavius, had died during his praetorship in 58 B.C.
At this point Livia reappears in her role as poisoner. Tacitus reports: “Augustus’ illness began to take a turn for the worse, and some suspected foul play on the part of his wife,” who was worried about her husband’s reconciliation with Agrippa Postumus. Dio goes further, albeit without committing himself:
Livia was afraid, some people allege, that Augustus might bring [Agrippa] back to make him emperor, and so she smeared with poison some figs which were still ripening on trees from which Augustus was in the habit of picking the fruit with his own hands. She then ate those which had not been smeared, and offered the poisoned fruit to him. At any rate, he fell sick from this or some other cause.
Tiberius was recalled and rushed to Nola. According to Dio, Augustus died before his return and Livia concealed the news until her son had reached her side, fearing that in his absence there “might be some uprising.” Guards were posted in the street around the villa and optimistic bulletins were issued from time to time. But Suetonius claims that Tiberius arrived in time to see Augustus alive. The dying man had a long talk with him in private, after which he attended to no further important business.
When visitors arrived from Rome, Augustus wanted to hear the latest news of Drusus’ daughter, Livilla, who was ill. Finally, he kissed his wife, saying “Goodbye, Livia. Never forget our marriage.” Just before he died, his wits seemed to wander, for he suddenly cried out in terror: “Forty young men are carrying me off!” (This was later interpreted as a prophecy, for the same number of Praetorians would form the guard of honor that conveyed him to his lying in state.)
Augustus had always hoped for a quick and painless death, and the gods granted his wish. The date was August 19, a little more than a month before his seventy-seventh birthday. He had been ruler of the Roman empire for almost forty-four years.
Immediately, a codicillus, an order, was sent to Planasia to execute Agrippa Postumus. The tribune in command of Agrippa’s guard told a centurion to see to the matter. The young man was strong and large and put up a fight, despite the fact that he had no weapons. He was eventually dispatched, with some difficulty. The deed was done only in the nick of time, for a slave of his called Clemens, having heard of Augustus’ death, immediately took a cargo ship to Planasia to rescue Agrippa, eithe
r by force or trickery. Unfortunately for Agrippa, the boat sailed slowly and Clemens arrived too late.
Meanwhile, the commander of the island guard set sail for Rome, where he presented himself to Tiberius and reported that the execution had been carried out. Tiberius vehemently denied having had anything to do with the matter, and insisted that the officer give an account of himself to the Senate.
According to Tacitus, the author of the codicillus was Gaius Sallustius Crispus, who, like Maecenas, did not trouble to hold public office, but operated behind the scenes. The grand-nephew of the historian Sallust, he became a “repository of imperial secrets.”
Alarmed by Tiberius’ decision to open Agrippa’s death to public debate, Sallustius warned Livia that “palace secrets, and the advice of friends, and services performed by the army, were best undivulged…. The whole point of autocracy is that the accounts will not come right unless the ruler is the only auditor.”
Tiberius was persuaded to remain silent. The matter was closed.
How should we best interpret the events surrounding the death of Augustus? The regime realized that the transition from one princeps to another, from the dominance of one man to the establishment of a dynasty, would be a time of great danger. All concerned took great pains to make everything run as smoothly as possible. The most likely threats would stem from civil dissidence in Italy and mutiny among the legions on the imperial frontiers. The focus for any trouble would be Agrippa Postumus, the last male representative of the Julian line.
Augustus Page 40