Augustus

XXI

GROWING THE EMPIRE

17–8 B.C.

As so often, it is as well to look below the surface of what the princeps said to what he exactly did. At bottom, he was an aggressive imperialist. Under his rule, Rome gained more new territory than in any comparable period in its previous history. His real position is set out in his official autobiography, Res Gestae, where he boasts: “I enlarged the territory of all provinces of the Roman People on whose borders were people who were not yet subject to our imperium.”

Public opinion expected nothing less of Rome’s ruler. Republican law had forbidden the Senate to declare war without provocation, without a casus belli, and indeed Rome (like Great Britain two millennia later) had acquired much of its eastern empire without altogether intending to do so. But now the idea that Rome had an imperial destiny was one of the ways by which the regime justified itself in the public mind.

Virgil writes of a Caesar “whose empire / shall reach to the Ocean’s limits, whose fame shall end in the stars”; Horace begs the goddess of luck to “guard our young swarm of warriors on the wing now / to spread the fear of Rome / into Arabia and the Red Sea coasts.”

The phrase “Ocean’s limits” reminds us how small and fuzzy at the edges was the Roman world. Accurate navigational equipment not having been invented, most explorers—usually they were traders—did not travel very far from the Mediterranean.

The Romans believed that the world’s landmass was a roughly circular disk consisting only of Europe and Asia, and that it was surrounded by a vast expanse of sea, Oceanus. They had no idea that the American and Australasian continents existed, nor that there was land beyond India. The landmass itself surrounded the Mediterranean Sea and Greece and Italy. The island of Britannia perched on its northwestern edge. The Roman empire took up a large part of the world as its inhabitants believed that world to be, and it was very tempting for its ambitious rulers to dream that they might one day conquer it all.

Maps were rare in the classical time; the first known world maps appeared in fifth-century Athens. Borrowing from Alexandrian models, the Romans, with their imperial responsibilities, recognized the practical importance of cartography. A world map was commissioned by Julius Caesar, probably as part of a triumphal monument he built on the Capitoline Hill, which showed him in a chariot with the world, in the form of a globe, at his feet.

Augustus commissioned his deputy, Agrippa, to work on a more detailed map, the orbis terrarum or “globe of the earth.” This showed hundreds of cities linked by Rome’s network of roads; it was based on reports sent in by Roman generals and governors, and by travelers. The result was a broadly recognizable picture, although distances and shapes became less and less accurate the farther places were from Rome.

The main purpose of the map was as an aid for imperial administrators, provincial governors, and military commanders; as a visual representation of the empire, it was also a powerful metaphor of Roman power. The map was painted or engraved on the wall of the Porticus Vipsania, a colonnade built by Agrippa’s sister, and was on permanent public display. Copies on papyrus or parchment were made for travelers, or information copied down.

As we have seen, Augustus and Agrippa spent many years abroad in different corners of the empire. Between 27 and 24 B.C., the princeps was in Gaul and Spain; between 22 and 19 B.C. in Greece and Asia; and between 16 and 13 B.C. in Gaul. Meanwhile, Agrippa spent 23 to 21 B.C. in the east, 20 and 19 in Gaul and Spain, and 16 to 13 B.C. in the east again. They spent their time quelling revolts, reforming or reviewing local administrations, and, above all, superintending the consolidation and expansion of the empire.

It is hard to tell whether the two men reacted to circumstances as they arose or pursued a long-term strategy. The impression is given of an orderly progression in the years that followed Actium from one priority to another. As we have seen, the eastern provinces and client kingdoms were reorganized. The frontier of Egypt was pushed southward and contact was made with the Ethiopians. An attempt was made to conquer the Arabian Peninsula, which failed. The negotiations with the Parthians were brought to a successful conclusion. Gaul and Spain were pacified.

A glance at the orbis terrarum showed that three great interrelated challenges were yet to be answered. First, the Alps were in the hands of fierce tribes and it was impossible to reach the eastern provinces by land around the top of the Italian peninsula. Second, the frontier of Macedonia was vaguely defined and hard to defend. Third, although the river Rhine, the existing Gallic frontier, ran from the North Sea to the Alps, there was constant westward pressure on it from Germanic tribes.

The ideal solution would be, first, to win control of the Alps and then move north to establish a defensible frontier lined with legions along the river Danube. In this way, buffer provinces in the north would protect Italy and Macedonia from direct attack. If the Rhine and the Danube were to mark the empire’s permanent boundary, a major strategic weakness would be likely to cause trouble in the future. This was that the heads of the two rivers formed a salient with its apex where the modern city of Basel stands today. The salient would allow hostile German tribes to operate on interior lines, giving them a huge military advantage.

So the final step would be to invade Germany and create a new frontier at the river Elbe. This would eliminate the salient and create a border roughly in a straight line between the North Sea and the Black Sea. Also, the territory thus gained would helpfully protect Gaul from eastern marauders.

This three-part plan of action may well have emerged through happenstance over the years, but its intellectual coherence and the fact that its constituent elements are interdependent strongly suggest that it was consciously conceived sometime after 19 B.C. and the final pacification of Spain. It would have been intended as a broad framework to guide future military activity, if not as a precisely worked-out blueprint.

If this was the case, it is not too fanciful to guess that the plan’s inventor was the man who had won all of Augustus’ wars for him: the indispensable Agrippa.

Important changes were taking place in the “divine family,” with multiple consequences for its members and for Rome itself. The marriage in 21 B.C. between the daughter of the princeps, Julia, and Agrippa succeeded where Augustus and Livia had conspicuously failed: it produced two sons, “an heir and a spare.” (Two daughters, Julia and Agrippina, quickly followed.) Gaius was born in 20 B.C. and Lucius in 17. With the arrival of the second boy, Augustus adopted them both and brought them up in his house. They were known thereafter as Gaius Caesar and Lucius Caesar. It was as if they were the offspring of two fathers, with Julia playing only a subordinate role as a human incubator.

The dynastic intention was patent, but this time instead of one “Marcellus” there were two, doubling the chances of survival. This development has been presented as leaving Livia and her sons, Tiberius and Drusus, out in the cold. Concerned as ever to maintain the continuity of the bloodline, the princeps certainly did not see them as successors. It was widely suspected at the time that Livia would do everything she could to promote their cause, but there is no evidence that she schemed to subvert her husband’s settled intentions. Indeed, she would have been most unwise to allow any disharmony to appear between her and her husband. That Augustus is never recorded to have complained about her and that she remained in high favor throughout his life argue strongly for her loyalty and discretion.

In any case, Tiberius and Drusus had nothing whatever to complain about. Twenty-five and twenty-one years old, respectively, they had already shown signs of talent and ambition and been rewarded for it. The princeps was inventive at making the best use of the human material at hand, and as always was more than willing to nurture and promote youth. He arranged for both his stepsons to be granted a special dispensation to hold office before the permitted minimum age and he gave them various challenging jobs. Tiberius’ marriage to Vipsania was a happy one. Relations with their stepfather were warm. Tiberius could be somewhat dour, but Drusus was universally popular.

Some undated letters of Augustus survive that speak of his affection for them both. On one occasion he describes to Tiberius how he and Drusus spent all day gambling during a public holiday, playing for high stakes (here, incidentally, he shows himself in an attractive light, for absolute rulers can be poor losers at games):

Your brother Drusus made fearful complaints about his luck, yet in the long run was not much out of pocket…. I lost twenty thousand sesterces; but that was because, asusual, I behaved with excessive sportsmanship. If I had dunned every player who had forfeited his stakes to me, or not handed over my legitimate winnings when dunned myself, I would have been at least fifty thousand to the good.

In another letter he replies to Tiberius’ good wishes: “My state of health is of little importance compared with yours. I pray that the gods will always keep you safe and sound for us, if they have not taken an utter aversion to Rome.”

Both young men showed an aptitude for the military life and generalship, qualities that the princeps had every intention of exploiting.

Events precipitated, or supplied the pretext for, initiation of the imperial grand strategy. In 17 B.C., Marcus Lollius, a venal, wealth-grabbing new man and a favorite of Augustus, suffered a defeat in Gaul at the hands of some Germanic tribes. The battle was of no real importance and the reverse was quickly avenged, but a legionary standard was lost.

The princeps decided to treat the setback as a grave emergency and traveled to Gaul to take matters in hand himself, bringing with him Tiberius (whom he seems to have appointed governor of Long-haired Gaul). Once arrived, he found there was nothing for him to do, for, learning that Lollius was preparing a punitive expedition and that Augustus himself was on his way, the tribal horde had vanished back into its own lands. Nevertheless, the princeps remained in Gaul for three years.

Why so long? The information that survives prevents a confident answer. Some unkind tongues at Rome supposed that he wanted to leave Rome so that he could pursue his affair with Maecenas’ wife, Terentia. This is possible—if a little odd, for Livia likely accompanied her husband on this as on his other expeditions. It may have been on this occasion that Augustus turned down her request to grant citizenship to a Gaul, and one source dates a curious (if possibly fictional) incident to this time.

Apparently a plot against the princeps was discovered while he was in Gaul, implicating among others a grandson of Pompey the Great, a foolish young man called Gnaeus (or possibly Lucius) Cornelius Cinna. Augustus spent sleepless nights and anxious days wondering whether to execute him; according to Dio, Livia persuaded him that clemency would calm his critics and so was more likely than severity to deter future plots.

Augustus was probably laying the ground for a series of major military offensives. He reorganized the army, demobilizing a large number of time-expired soldiers who had joined up after Actium and settling them in Gaul and Spain. This was presumably accompanied by a recruiting drive. The length of a legionary’s service was extended to sixteen years (and twelve for members of the Praetorian Guard). At about this time Lugdunum (today’s Lyon) seems to have begun to operate as a major mint, coining gold and silver with which to pay legions on campaign in Gaul and Germany.

In 17 or 16 B.C., hostilities opened when the governor of Illyricum launched an attack on a couple of Alpine tribes, probably inhabitants of the region between Como and Lake Garda. Then in 15 B.C., to avenge some alleged atrocities on Roman citizens, Tiberius and Drusus headed a two-pronged attack into Raetia, an area covering today’s Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and western Austria, and into the lands of the Vindelici, in southern Bavaria. It seems to have been an easy victory, for the young commanders achieved all their aims in a single summer campaign. In the following year, Roman forces conquered and annexed the Maritime Alps.

As a rule, Roman armies won their wars against “barbarian” tribes in Spain, Gaul, or Germany by a preponderance of force, but they found it very difficult to stamp out the last embers of resistance. Time and again the enemy recovered, regrouped, and returned to the offensive, often using guerrilla tactics. Tiberius and Drusus decided to prevent a future Alpine revolt by a simple but brutal means: mass deportations of men of military age. Enough people were left behind to keep the area inhabited, but too few to launch an uprising. The new province of Raetia came into being. The geographer Strabo visited the region a generation later and reported a continuing “state of tranquillity.” If so, it was the tranquillity of desolation.

Not only had stage one of the military strategy been swiftly and brilliantly completed, but in the process stage two had been launched. This was because Raetia’s northern border was the river Danube, and a little additional fighting led to the acquisition of the neighboring territory of Noricum to the east (roughly the rest of Austria). Noricum abutted Pannonia, whose tribesmen had been defeated in Octavian’s Illyrian wars; although the Pannonians had been neither conquered nor occupied, for the time being they were quiet.

On Pannonia’s eastern borders, Moesia had already been subdued, although it was not felt necessary to turn it into a formal province for a generation or so. Pannonia was a lurking problem that would sooner or later have to be solved, but for the first time in its history Rome faced no direct threat south of the Danube.

This was a real and permanent achievement, and Augustus was well pleased. He commissioned a huge celebratory monument, the Tropaeum Alpium (Trophy of the Alps). Fifty feet high, it was a great square stone edifice, which supported a wide circular tower surrounded by columns and topped with a great stepped roof, like a squat spire. On the apex there probably stood a statue of the princeps. The monument’s still impressive remains can be seen at La Turbie, near Monaco.

In 13 B.C., the state’s two leading men returned to Rome, the princeps from Gaul, Agrippa from the eastern provinces, where he had spent the last three years. Augustus apparently recognized that the burden of empire demanded two co-rulers; Tiberius and Drusus were emerging as effective deputies. When they grew up, little Gaius and Lucius, in whom the genes of Augustus and Agrippa were mingled, would be the final inheritors of the Roman state.

It was an ingenious and ruthless scheme. However, its success would depend on the survival of all the parties; also, on the willingness of Tiberius and Drusus, after years of power and fame, to step aside at the right moment, remaining forever in second place. It would be asking a lot of their generosity, but Augustus was always implacable where the interests of the state and the “divine family” were at stake.

The Theater of Marcellus was finally dedicated by Augustus; the associated festivities included a performance of the Troy Game, an elaborate cavalry display. Boys of good birth joined societies that offered training in horsemanship, and they showed off their prowess in a mock battle between two groups of teenaged riders.

In what was probably his introduction to public life, little Gaius, only seven years old, took part in the game (presumably nominally), and put in an appearance at a theatrical performance. When he entered the theater the audience leaped to its feet and cheered him to the echo, and so Tiberius, who was presiding, let the boy sit next to his grandfather instead of in his designated place. Augustus expressed his annoyance in no uncertain terms, for he did not want the children to be spoiled by public attention they had done nothing to deserve. Later he gave Tiberius a sharp tongue-lashing.

Power was for use, not for ornament. Augustus did not allow Tiberius and Drusus to celebrate even well-deserved triumphs, although they received triumphal insignia (that is, they had the honor of a triumph although none was actually held). In theory, the brothers did not qualify for the honor, for they were not army commanders themselves, but deputies or legati of their stepfather. But a more important principle was at stake. Only the princeps should be a triumphator, for no one else was allowed to rival him for military glory. The last senator to hold a triumph had done so in 19 B.C. Agrippa, the greatest general of the day, loyally held back, refusing to accept three triumphs when offered. However, Tiberius had no cause for resentment: this year he was consul for the first time, at the age of twenty-nine.

Splendid ceremonial aside, some important public business was put in hand. Augustus and Agrippa had their imperium renewed for another five years, and for the first time Agrippa was awarded imperium maius, the overriding authority that allowed him to give orders to provincial governors. This was a momentous event, for it placed him for the first time on completely equal terms with the princeps.

Despite the reforms of the past fifteen years, the Senate was still not working as well as it should. The adoption in 18 B.C. of a million sesterces as the new wealth minimum for membership had had the unintended consequence that qualified men who wished to avoid service were able to plead poverty (not always honestly) and so win exemption from senatorial status. Not enough suitable men were making themselves available for the vigintiviri, the junior administrative jobs that opened a political career.

During his absence from Rome, Augustus had arranged for a decree allowing him to open the vigintiviri to selected equites. Now that he was back in the city, he reviewed the entire membership of the Senate and compelled senatorial malingerers—that is, young men of the senatorial class who possessed the necessary property qualification but tried to conceal it—to take their proper places.

Fighting apathy in the ruling elite was an uphill struggle, and Augustus’ adjustments made little real difference. The great offices of state and senior army appointments gave status to those who held them. But the fact that power was gathered into one man’s hands, not widely distributed as it had been under the Republic, was the real reason that many young men were less interested in a public career than their forebears had been. There was nothing Augustus would or could do about that.

A long-overdue departure at last took place. Self-seeking, self-indulgent old Lepidus had spent a quiet quarter of a century in retirement. Augustus had dropped him as triumvir but left him with his private fortune and his position as pontifex maximus. In 13 B.C. he died, full of years if not of honor.

Now that Lepidus had gone, Augustus succeeded him as pontifex maximus. Finally, he had reached the commanding heights of the Roman religious establishment. He was in a stronger position than ever to accelerate his efforts to restore traditional religious values. Most educated Romans were skeptics and rationalists yet still harbored a belief that Rome’s greatness was in some way due to its piety. If the pax deorum, the goodwill of the gods, were not maintained, then disaster could be just around the corner.

As we have seen, Augustus’ temple building and restoration program was only one aspect of his policy; he also continued to revive lost religious practices, increasing the number of priests and enhancing their privileges. He revived old fellowships, such as the fratres arvales, or “land brothers,” who handled spring ceremonials to promote the crops. Ordinary citizens were catered for with the revival of local cults in the city’s neighborhoods: at ceremonies to propitiate the lares compitales, the spirits of the main crossroads in every ward in the city, their images were garlanded with wreaths of flowers twice a year. The princeps sealed his long-standing popularity with the people by associating these cults with that of his “genius,” the spirit that protected him and his family.

This was as far as Italian opinion would let him go. Julius Caesar had been deified when safely dead, and Augustus knew better than to have himself declared a god in his lifetime. However, elsewhere throughout the empire he encouraged the dual cult of Rome as a goddess and of himself as a godlike being. This gave provincials the opportunity to stage loyalty ceremonies and encouraged an imperial esprit de corps.

It was time to complete stage two of the military strategy. The Alps had been won and two Danube provinces created. But the Pannonian tribes were becoming restive again, and a Roman general led an expedition against them in 14 B.C. Toward the end of the following year, Augustus decided it was time to impose a permanent solution and gave Agrippa overall direction of the war. Although winter had begun, Agrippa embarked on his campaign at once. We have no details, but the Pannonians seem to have quieted down, and Agrippa returned from the Balkans, crossing by sea to Brundisium.

The real reason for his return may have been his health, for in March of 12 B.C., when he arrived in Campania on his way north to the capital, he fell gravely ill. Although at fifty he was still comparatively young, no surviving source has revealed what he was suffering from. Perhaps nobody knew. A fierce Balkan winter may have had something to do with it, and it is reported that in his final years Agrippa suffered unendurable pain from gout. On medical advice, and without informing Augustus, Agrippa took an agonizing course of treatment, plunging his legs into hot vinegar when a paroxysm of the disease was at its worst.

Augustus learned of his colleague’s illness while he was presenting some gladiatorial games in honor of Gaius and Lucius. He immediately set out from Rome, but Agrippa was dead when he arrived. The blow was devastating. The two men had been friends from boyhood, and had shared the astonishing adventure of their lives. Even when their relationship was severely tested, they had remained true to each other. Augustus knew that without Agrippa’s military talent he would have been lucky to have reached his present eminence.

Many prodigies and portents were recorded, which served to underline the seriousness of Rome’s loss. The one that will have made the greatest impression as far as Augustus was concerned was the burning down of the hut of Romulus, next to his house on the Palatine. This had happened before, thanks to careless priests, but the culprits this time were said to be crows. The birds dropped onto the hut flaming fragments of meat, which they had snatched from some sacrificial altar.

It was the custom for widows to remarry, and the princeps gave careful consideration to Julia’s future. He flirted with the idea of giving her to some political nonentity, even an eques. The trouble was that Julia would remain a great lady and, being an independent-minded person, might be willing and able to exert political influence on her own account from the security of a separate household. Better by far to keep her inside the family circle. In that case the only two available candidates were Drusus and Tiberius; but Drusus’ wife, Antonia, was Octavia’s daughter and thus able to produce children of Augustus’ bloodline. She had already given birth to a son, called Germanicus after his father’s victories, and more offspring might be anticipated.

Tiberius, now thirty-one years old, was the better choice, Augustus felt. His wife, Vipsania, was Agrippa’s daughter by his first marriage and dynastically unimportant. Unfortunately, Tiberius loved Vipsania and was most unwilling to divorce her. What was more, he strongly disapproved of Julia, who (according to Suetonius) had made a pass at him during Agrippa’s lifetime.

Such considerations did not trouble the princeps, for whom duty trumped personal preference. In 11 B.C., he required Tiberius to put Vipsania away and marry his daughter. This he did, but continued to miss his first wife. Once accidentally catching sight of her, he stared at her with tears in his eyes and an expression of intense unhappiness. This was noticed and precautions were taken against his ever seeing her again.

At first, Tiberius pulled himself together and made an effort; he and Julia lived affectionately enough as man and wife until a child that was born to them died in infancy. By then he had come to loathe her and renounced marital relations.

Livia is sometimes credited with promoting the match. Perhaps: she would hardly be human if she did not look out for her sons, and she won a reputation among her acquaintances for discreet scheming. A sharp-eyed great-grandson, who knew her in her extreme old age, nicknamed her after the Greek hero most famous for deviousness and sagacity. He called her Ulixes stolatus, Ulysses in a frock. However, no evidence survives of her intervention, and Augustus’ choice of Tiberius was a logical one, which needed no special pleading.

For his father-in-law and (assuming her approval) his mother, Tiberius’ feelings were irrelevant. But he was a private, silent, and introverted man, whose obedience masked obstinate emotion. He had given way on this occasion, but would the time come when he broke free from the heartless and demanding princeps?

Personal loss was not allowed to halt the progress of imperial expansion. Tiberius took over from Agrippa in Illyricum and Pannonia, and Drusus commanded the legions on the Rhine. In the spring or early summer of 12 B.C., the brothers launched simultaneous campaigns. To be in close touch with events as they unfolded, the princeps spent time in Aquileia and other towns in northern Italy.

The older brother fought the Pannonian tribes for four years, but faced few major difficulties because the enemy seemed unable to unite against a common threat. He deployed his usual ruthlessness, deporting most of the men and selling them into slavery. It appeared that the Pannonian problem had been solved once and for all, and that the last gap along the Danube frontier had been plugged.

Drusus had a more difficult time, although he won victory after victory. He also worked hard to encourage Gallic unity under the aegis of Rome. A great altar to Augustus was erected in a temple at Lugdunum at the confluence of the rivers Rhône and Saône. The altar carried an inscription with the names of all Gaul’s sixty tribes, and each tribe contributed a symbolic image of itself.

Propaganda in Gaul was matched by warfare on the far side of the Rhine. Drusus launched a succession of annual incursions. In 12 B.C., he sent a fleet up to the river Weser, and then having won the seacoast marched deep into German lands as far as the mid-Weser. However, he was not such a safe pair of hands as Tiberius and could be foolhardy. He was obsessively ambitious to win the spolia opima—as mentioned earlier, this was Rome’s greatest and rarest military prize, awarded to a commander in chief who personally killed an opposing general—and he used to chase German chieftains across the battlefield at great risk to himself.

The young general twice got into severe difficulties. Evidently failing to understand the vigor of non-Mediterranean tides, he once allowed his fleet to become stranded when the sea ebbed, and just managed to extricate himself from the resulting danger with help from a friendly local tribe. On another occasion Drusus was ambushed in a narrow pass and faced annihilation. Fortunately, his attackers were overconfident and lost formation when they came to close quarters. Only the cool professionalism of the Roman legionary saw off the enemy.

By the fourth year, Drusus reached what was probably his ultimate destination, the river Elbe. After stiff fighting, he defeated the Marcomanni, a tribe strategically placed between the heads of the Elbe and the Danube. These were fine achievements, which earned the popular general triumphal regalia.

The brothers’ successes were impressive, but impermanent. Drusus raided rather than conquered; at the end of each year’s campaigning, he left fortresses, but withdrew his army into Gaul. The relative incompetence of the Pannonians concealed bitter anti-Roman feeling. They did not accept the verdict of the war.

The year 9 B.C. began well for Augustus. On January 30 (Livia’s birthday, and perhaps her fiftieth) a great Ara Pacis, Altar of Peace, commissioned four years previously, was completed in Rome. Entirely made of marble, it was a sizable square enclosure, with two doorways. Inside, some steps led up to a large three-sided altar; drains were built in to allow the blood from slaughtered sacrificial animals to be washed away. Reliefs around the outside of the walls, inspired by the Parthenon marbles, depicted a grave procession of Roman notables headed by Augustus and Agrippa, with Livia and various relatives, including Gaius and Lucius.

The altar completed a grouping of magnificent structures that asserted the greater glory of the princeps and the stability of the regime. The Mausoleum of Augustus was the largest example of its kind; erected in a prominent location between the Via Flaminia leading north from the city, and the Tiber, it was a circular building about 262 feet in diameter, on top of which was piled a mound of earth planted with cypress trees and surmounted by a statue of Augustus. Next door stood a square four-walled enclosure covered by a metal grating. This was the ustrinum, where the dead were cremated before their ashes were placed in the mausoleum. Oriented toward the Ara Pacis was the Horologium Augusti, a vast sundial whose pointer was an obelisk that the princeps had brought back from Egypt. Lines marking months, days, and hours were inlaid in bronze on the dial’s face. At equinoxes, one of which was September 23, Augustus’ birthday, the shadow on the dial fell on the entrance to the altar. (Unfortunately, after a while the sundial started telling the wrong time, probably because an earthquake disturbed the alignments.)

The ruins of the mausoleum survive, as does the Ara Pacis, which reopened to the public in 2005 after a long period of restoration. The ustrinum is gone; of the Horologium, only the obelisk remains (it now stands in front of the Italian parliament).

Fate intervened once again to lop off another member of the “divine family.” In the late summer or autumn of 9 B.C., while he was at his summer headquarters, the twenty-nine-year-old Drusus had a riding accident and broke his leg. It was quickly apparent that he was not going to recover, although it is uncertain why. The Roman army employed experienced medical teams, and on campaign deployed well-equipped field hospitals. In the nature of military life, fractures were common; military surgeons had a good knowledge of how to deal with them, and the techniques of splinting and setting bones described in ancient medical texts are not greatly dissimilar to modern practice.

Some of the literary sources write of an illness rather than an accident, which may mean that it was not the broken leg that killed Drusus, but later complications. An inflammation and fever may have supervened. If there was an open wound, perhaps an infection took hold; without effective antibiotics, that could have led to gangrene and amputation.

Tiberius heard the news of Drusus’ accident when he was at Ticinum (today’s Pavia) in northern Italy reporting to Augustus about his Pannonian campaign. He rushed off in a panic to his brother. After crossing the Alps he covered two hundred miles at full stretch in a day and a night, changing his horses at intervals. The achievement was all the more remarkable in that he was traveling through unsettled territory that had only recently been conquered, with a Gallic guide as his sole companion.

As Tiberius approached his brother’s camp, someone went ahead to announce his arrival. Almost at his last gasp, Drusus ordered his legions to march out to meet him and salute him as commander in chief. He died shortly afterward, and the anguished Tiberius accompanied his body back to Italy, walking in front all the way. For most of the journey, the coffin was carried by leading men from the towns and cities through which the procession passed. Augustus and Livia met the cortège at Ticinum and traveled with it to Rome.

Livia was shattered by the death of her son. As she followed his body she was moved by the pyres that were lit in the dead man’s honor throughout the country and the crowds that came out to escort Drusus on his way.

She did not know how to comfort herself in her grief. Areius, the Alexandrian philosopher and family friend, counseled her not to bottle up her feelings, so she displayed pictures of Drusus in public places and in her private apartments and encouraged her friends and acquaintances to talk about him. However, unlike Octavia when Marcellus died, Livia maintained her dignity, and was widely respected for not overstating her grief.

Drusus’ much-loved wife, Antonia, the daughter of Mark Antony and Octavia, and her children—two boys, Germanicus and Claudius, and a girl, Julia Livilla—moved in with Livia. The dual household on the Palatine was also home to Gaius and Lucius, Agrippa’s boys whom Augustus had adopted, and the orderly bustle of officials was counterpointed by the unruly sounds of children’s voices.

Drusus was given a splendid sendoff. His body lay in state in the Forum, where Tiberius delivered a eulogy. Augustus gave another in the Circus Flaminius. After cremation, his ashes were laid in the Mausoleum of Augustus.

Everybody liked Drusus, and it was clear that his family was shocked by his sudden death. However, it did not take long for conspiracy theorists to weave a curious tale. This was that Augustus suspected Drusus of being a revolutionary who wanted to bring back the “old Republican constitution.” Tiberius was supposed to have treacherously shown the princeps a letter from Drusus suggesting they broach the subject with their step-father. So Augustus recalled him from Germany and had him poisoned. Suetonius reports the allegation, only to dismiss it. Rightly so, for how could the arrest of Drusus have been concealed and the charade of a funeral procession stage-managed? Suetonius writes: “In point of fact Augustus felt so deep a love for Drusus while he lived that, as he admitted to the Senate on one occasion, he considered him no less an heir than were his sons,” Gaius and Lucius.

Yet there may be some truth in the claim that the brothers held republican sympathies. They could well have discussed the kind of state they would like to see in the long term, with Tiberius agreeing to raise the matter with Augustus. In 9 B.C., the year of Drusus’ consulship, Augustus took some measures to strengthen the Senate; these could have been concessions to Drusus’ wishes. Two regular meetings were to be held every month on days freed from legal and other business. Fines for nonattendance by senators were increased, and strict attendance records were kept.

Two other men whom the princeps loved joined the roster of death in the following year: Maecenas and Horace. Together with Agrippa, Maecenas had been with Augustus from the beginning. Although their relations had cooled, and Maecenas’ political influence declined, the two men were still friends. Maecenas remained loyal and always advised against despotic measures, recommending that nothing be done to limit freedom of speech and opposing the death penalty for political enemies.

Maecenas was something of a hypochondriac. In the last three years of his life he seems to have suffered from a perpetual fever; he found it hard to sleep, and arranged for music to play quietly in another room. But he put up with his infirmities, writing a little poem to his dear friend Horace:

Cripple my hand,

my foot and my hip;

shake out my loose teeth.

So long as I’m alive,

everything’s all right.

Maecenas feared death, and Horace reassured him with a touching ode, in which he promised not to outlive his patron

The same day shall heap earth

over us both. I take the soldier’s oath:

you lead, and we shall go together, both

ready to tread the road that ends

all roads, inseparable friends.

It was many years since Maecenas had talent-spotted Horace and introduced him to Augustus. The princeps had grown very fond of the tubby little poet. He used to call him “my purest of pricks” (purissimum penem) and “little charmer” (homuncionem lepidissimum). They shared a certain dry and cool realism about life.

Once Augustus asked Horace to work for him as a secretary to help him draft his correspondence. This was the last sort of job the poet would enjoy, and he declined. The princeps showed no resentment. He wrote to him good-humoredly: “Even if you were so arrogant as to spurn my friendship, I decline to return your scorn!”

Augustus greatly admired Horace’s poetry and was always trying to persuade him to write on political or public themes. The “Secular Hymn” and the odes about Tiberius and Drusus were the result. When Augustus was piqued at finding that he made no appearance in Horace’s satires and epistles, many of which took the form of conversations with friends, he protested: “I have to say I am most displeased with you, that in your copious writings of this sort you ‘converse’ with other people and not with me. Are you afraid that posterity will condemn you if you appear to have been my friend?”

When Horace’s health was in decline, Augustus wrote again: “Do as you please in my house, as if you were living with me, for this is how I always wanted our relationship, if only your health permitted it.”

In September of 8 B.C., Maecenas died. Two months later Horace fulfilled his promise, only a little late, and followed him. He was buried close to his friend’s tomb.

The deaths of Agrippa and Drusus within four years of each other transformed Roman politics. The ages of the key players throw light on the realities of the situation. The princeps was fifty-four years old (a year younger than Julius Caesar had been when he died). Tiberius was thirty-three and in his prime. The young hopeful gentlemen, Gaius and Lucius Caesar, were eleven and eight respectively; it would be a good ten years before they were ready to play a full part in public life, by which time Augustus would be in his mid-sixties, a ripe old age for the period.

Two things must have been clear to Augustus. If his dynastic plans were to succeed, then, by hook or by crook, he needed to survive for another decade, for if he did not Tiberius would have to succeed him, just as Agrippa would have done rather than Marcellus in far-off 23 B.C. And Tiberius was the only senior and experienced adult on hand to help Augustus run the empire. His stepson was essential, for now.

Augustus was an autocrat who valued and acted on advice, but the persons on whom he depended emotionally and professionally were falling away. Agrippa; Octavia, who had died in 11 B.C.; Drusus; Maecenas—all gone. The astute Livia was on hand, of course, and the taciturn Tiberius, more experienced on the battlefield than at court. But from now on one senses a growing rigidity of mind in the princeps.