Caligula
In the year 37 AD, the empire shifted into a lighter mood when Caligula became Emperor. "Little Boots" — the nickname his father Germanicus' legions had given him — was now 25 years old. He had suffered mightily from palace intrigue. As the lone survivor of a charismatic father, and as the grown mascot of Rome's army, many hoped Caligula would breathe energy into the gloomy city.
At first, Caligula lived up to expectations. He recalled exiles; and hosted a bonfire where he ceremoniously burned the records of his predecessor's treason trials. But Caligula soon began to show disturbing eccentricities. Two years into his rule, Caligula led an army north. When he reached the sea, the Emperor prepared to invade Britain — the land that had eluded Julius Caesar. Then, inexplicably, Caligula ordered the legions to gather seashells instead.
Tyranny descended on Rome as Caligula's quirks grew into abominations. Once, during a sacred ritual, Caligula was to offer an animal to the gods. As he raised his mallet to kill the sacrifice, however, on a whim he brought it down instead on the nearby priest. The man died instantly.
Caligula dressed in silken and bejeweled robes. He forced Senators to grovel on the ground and kiss his feet. He openly seduced their wives at dinner parties, and discussed the women's sexual performance over dessert.
Keith Bradley: There's no doubt that Caligula was strange, grotesque, and perhaps even really clinically insane. His reign does show the danger of hereditary succession within the system that Augustus had founded. Military monarchy of the Augustan kind did work. There's no doubt about that. But its danger was that if a hereditary system was used, you could never guarantee that the ruler of the day was going to be an effective ruler. And certainly, with Caligula, we find one Emperor who was an absolute disaster.
The disastrous Caligula brought Rome's elite to their knees, and his enemies grew rapidly in number. Caligula paid for his misdeeds with his life. In 41 AD, after only five years as Emperor, Caligula was murdered by his closest aides.

Claudius
In the imperial family, Claudius, the sole surviving heir of Augustus, and the brother of the dead war hero Germanicus, was the object of ridicule. In his infancy, Claudius' body was wracked by a mysterious illness. To his family's shame, his biographer Suetonius tells us, Claudius was disfigured for the rest of his life:
When he walked, his knees buckled. He had an indecent laugh and — even more disgusting — when he was angry, spittle flew from his mouth. His nose ran, his tongue stumbled, and his head wobbled with the slightest exertion.
Claudius was the butt of jokes. When he dozed after dinner, guests pelted him with food. They put slippers on his hands and roared with laughter when Claudius awoke, rubbing his face with his shoes.
But in the year 41 AD, the laughter suddenly stopped. After Caligula was murdered, Claudius became the new Emperor of Rome. Suetonius recalls his dubious beginnings:
Shut out by those conspiring against Caligula, Claudius retired to private rooms. Not much later, after news of the murder, he crept out, terrified, to a nearby sunroom and hid himself in the curtains. A soldier happened to notice his feet. Claudius fell to his knees in fear. But the soldier recognized him and hailed Claudius Emperor.
Claudius would ultimately surprise everyone. This unlikely Emperor rose every morning just after midnight to begin work. He passed laws protecting sick slaves, increased women's privileges, and apologized to petitioners for the lack of chairs. "This sort of behavior," Suetonius reports, "endeared him to the people."
Stunning acts followed these surprising gestures. Succeeding where the great Julius Caesar had failed, Claudius finally established Roman rule in Britain. It was the foremost addition to the empire since Augustus' death. Military success did not insulate him from political danger, however. Claudius was no less vulnerable to intrigue than those who preceded him.
In the eyes of many, Claudius' weak spot was his wife, Messalina. The Emperor adored her, but she did not return his devotion. Instead, Messalina indulged her passions for luxury and for affairs with palace servants. Claudius always looked away.
In the year 48 AD, her affairs suddenly turned sinister when she took a new lover. This time he was a nobleman, not a servant, and her affair was widely thought to signal a coup in the making. "Act fast," a loyal freedman urged Claudius, "or her new man controls Rome!"
Claudius rushed back to the capital and ordered his guards to kill Messalina's lover. The empress fled to a friend's villa to compose her appeal. Claudius' anger began to wane, but his loyal freedman took no chances. Claudius was hosting a dinner party when news reached him that his wife had died. Without asking whether it was suicide or murder, he called for more wine.
In the year 49 AD, Claudius sought a new wife. Roman society mobilized, and the rivalry was intense as ambitious families sought to link their bloodlines with the Emperor's. While they schemed, Claudius hesitated, and tensions grew.
Finally, Claudius made a decision that startled Rome. The Emperor chose to wed his own niece Agrippina — a woman of steely resolve and questionable character. The historian Tacitus describes the results:
From this point, the empire was changed. All obeyed a woman. But this was a woman without feminine frivolity. She was openly severe and often arrogant. Agrippina's dominance was almost masculine.
Agrippina turned her back on Roman ideals of feminine virtue by seizing power directly and using it proudly. She struck down her rivals, founded a colony in her own name, and, Tacitus tells us, secured the pardon of a man Claudius had exiled: the writer and Stoic philosopher, Seneca. The popular author was to tutor her twelve-year-old son by a previous marriage — Nero.
Inside the imperial palace, Seneca would encounter far more vice than virtue. After luring Claudius into marriage, Agrippina had begun to weave an elaborate plot to advance her son. First, pushing aside Claudius's own son Britannicus, she convinced the Emperor to adopt Nero and designate him heir. With the line of succession now clear, Agrippina's only remaining obstacle was her husband. Tacitus writes:
Her plans for murder were firm. As she bided her time, waiting for opportunity, Agrippina sought the right poison. A specialist in the field was chosen. And by her skill, a potion prepared. It was delivered to Claudius by the eunuch who served and tasted his food.
Claudius was served a dish of poisoned mushrooms. He collapsed, teetering on the brink of death, then amazingly began to recover. Horrified, Agrippina quickly enlisted the Emperor's own physician in her crime. While pretending to help Claudius vomit his tainted food, the doctor put a feather dipped in poison down the Emperor's throat. "Dangerous crimes," Tacitus commented, "bring ample reward." Claudius, the Emperor of Rome, was dead. Nero
Within hours, the palace gates were thrown open. Agrippina's son was declared Emperor, and the reign of Nero had begun. The young Nero had a sensitive nature, favoring theater, music, and the popular pastime of horse racing. But, like Caligula before him, he had a darker side.
Agrippina heard stories that her son seduced married women and young boys, and that he had castrated and "married" a male slave. According to Suetonius, even worse behavior ensued:
As soon as it was dark, he was in the habit of going to the taverns wearing a wig. He would wander the streets, looking for action — and not just juvenile pranks, either. He attacked people on the way home from dinner, stabbed them when they fought back, and threw their bodies into the sewers.
As stories of Nero's degeneracy increased, so too did Agrippina's disapproval. As the pliable young Emperor indulged his various passions, efforts to control him reached a fevered pitch, particularly between the Emperor's mother and his tutor Seneca. Seneca exerted power discretely, but Agrippina would not tread lightly. Relations between mother and son deteriorated quickly, and he resolved to kill her.
The plot began at a seaside resort, where Nero invited his mother to sail down to reconcile their differences. When the reunion ended, Agrippina set out for home. An assassination attempt on her boat failed and, amid the confusion, Agrippina swam to safety. Upon reaching the shore, Tacitus says a crowd of supporters greeted her — a testament to her dangerous popularity.
Nero was stunned to learn that his mother had survived. But he quickly recovered and sent soldiers to finish the job. Tacitus recalls the scene:
An armed and threatening force circled her villa and broke down the doors. They found her in a dimly lit room with a single maid. The assassins surrounded her bed. First, the captain struck her head with a club. Then another soldier drew his sword for the deathblow. Agrippina cried out: "Stab my womb!" Again and again they thrust their swords and she was stabbed to death.
Rome was appalled. Matricide was among the worst crimes a Roman could commit. Nero solemnly informed the Senate that the imperial mother had conspired to overthrow him, her own son, but the excuse was obviously fiction.
Romans yearned for peace in the capital, and welcomed the new stability, but their tolerance for Nero's behavior continued to erode. The disaster that followed would cast even darker shadows over Nero's reign — and ultimately bring about its violent end. The Great Fire
The historian Tacitus wrote of ill omens in Rome. "Unlucky birds settled on the Capitol," he recalled. "Houses fell in numerous earthquakes and the weak were trampled by the fleeing crowd." The situation was worsening rapidly for the empire, as Nero continued his ruthless reign. Seneca, his tutor and advisor, sought to distance himself from the growing chaos by seeking retirement, but Nero would not allow it. Tensions ran deep among the ruling classes. A new horror would soon eclipse all other concerns, however. Tacitus writes:
Fire began in shops near the Circus. Fanned by the winds and fed by merchandise, the flames engulfed the entire district. They surged up the hills, consuming all in their path, gaining strength in the city's narrow, twisting roads. The cries of women, children, invalids — frantic people trying to help themselves or others — all added to the panic.
The Great Fire of Rome lasted for six days and seven nights. Of Rome's fourteen districts, only four remained untouched. Countless temples, homes, and shops were destroyed. When the fire burnt itself out, Nero surveyed the smoldering ruins. He opened public buildings — even his own property — to the homeless, but according to Tacitus, the Emperor's aid was cold comfort:
However well intended, his relief measures were in vain. A malicious rumor was spreading throughout Rome that while fire ravaged the city, Nero was on his private stage, singing.
Nero was beyond anyone's control. As his arrogance grew, Seneca's patience wore thin. He pretended illness and confined himself to bed; eventually, Nero allowed his aging tutor to retire to the country. With his mother dead and his tutor retired, Rome was now subject to the whims of an unstable tyrant. Only one course of action could remove him.
In the year 65 AD, a few defiant Romans began talking of murder, but stymied by fear, they hesitated. Finally, a freed slave named Epicharis took charge. She found a disgruntled officer who had access to the Emperor. Meeting him in secret, she begged the officer to strike the first blow — to free Rome of the tyrant.
The officer betrayed Epicharis to Nero, who quickly sought revenge. He demanded the names of the plotters. Epicharis refused. The next day, Epicharis tied a noose around her neck and ended her own life.
With the plotters still at large, Nero redoubled his guard; and unleashed a reign of terror. Countless people — some innocent, some guilty — were sucked into the fury of Nero's revenge and executed or forced into suicide. His old tutor Seneca was one of the victims. The biographer Suetonius tells of the beginning of the end for Nero:
Having endured such a tempestuous Emperor for almost fourteen years, the world at last dismissed him. The uprising began in the northern territories. When Nero learned of the revolt, he collapsed and lay on the floor, stunned and deathly silent. When word reached him that other armies had also defected, he tore up the dispatches and tried to enlist his officers to flee with him. Some turned their backs and others openly refused.
The Senators then turned on their Emperor. They declared him a public enemy — permitting him to be killed with impunity. Terrified, Nero fled to the country with his few remaining slaves, where Suetonius recounts the end of his reign:
Although he was barefoot and wearing only a tunic, he grabbed a hooded cloak, and galloped away to an old villa. While waiting for servants to prepare a secret entrance, he cleaned his torn cloak of thorns, then crawled in. He ordered them to dig his own grave. Weeping as he spoke, he moaned over and over: "Such an artist dies in me!" With the help of his secretary, he drove an iron blade into his throat.
The dynasty of Augustus was extinct, and the empire was rudderless. As the year 68 AD drew to a close, rival generals began marching towards the capital. Civil war closed in on Rome.

Galba, Otho and Vitellius
The year 69 AD would be one of the most turbulent in the history of the Roman Empire. With Nero's death, Augustus' legacy abruptly ended. In the absence of an heir, the Senate named Galba, the governor of Rome's Spanish province, as the new Emperor. Galba had a reputation as a merciless disciplinarian, and his new government soon became oppressive. When the Praetorian Guard requested the bonus that was promised them, Galba refused to pay.
Otho, who had served Galba faithfully only to be passed over as the aged ruler's heir, organized the Guard in a plot against the Emperor. The Praetorians cut down Galba and his heir in public, and paraded their heads through the streets of Rome. Otho, widely known to be Galba's chief assassin, was hailed as Emperor.
Vitellius, the governor from Rome's German provinces, seized the opportunity to claim the throne for himself. With an army of 100,000 men, he marched over the Alps and into Italy. In April of 69 AD, Otho's smaller army was overwhelmed, and he committed suicide. Vitellius' reign proved to be even more destructive than Galba's had been, and Rome's discontent continued. Many in Rome looked to the east for a ruler who would challenge Vitellius, and re-establish order throughout the empire.

Vespasian
In the province of Judaea, Vespasian was one of the empire's most successful generals, and was already hardened by battle. For three years, he had been fighting to suppress a local revolt. With victory in sight, Vespasian's ambitions suddenly turned in a direction unprecedented for a man of his station.
Ron Mellor: Vespasian is not from the old aristocracy. His family comes from a small town not very far from Rome, but a world away in social class. His father and grandfather had been tax collectors and soldiers. And he himself liked to put on the image of a man of the people. A man of the camp. A man who is one with the soldiers.
Vespasian's troops urged him to seize power, and soldiers in other provinces backed him as well. Emboldened by the opportunity, Vespasian directed them to march on the capital.
Upon reaching Italy, they found themselves face-to-face with the enemy: and for the first time in a hundred years, "the enemy" was fellow Romans. The historian, Cassius Dio, describes the tragedy:
They fought as if against foreigners and not kinsmen. Even when night fell, they would not relent. But whenever the moon broke through the shifting clouds, you could see exhausted opponents talking. While over here, some battled on; over there, others rested, leaning on their swords Occasionally, one would take another aside and say, "Fellow soldier, citizen, what are we doing? Why are we fighting? Defect to my side." The other would reply, "No indeed, you come to mine." And so they spent the night, alternately fighting and talking, until sunrise.
In the morning, Vespasian's forces gained the upper hand. They cut down their countrymen, ransacked a nearby town, then, inflamed by blood and plunder, closed in on Rome. Soon the empire's capital was a battleground for competing armies, and Rome's civilians were caught in the middle.
Some fifty thousand people were killed before Vespasian's forces won the day. The feeble Senate ratified the result: Vespasian — a rustic man of the camp — was now Emperor of Rome.
Ron Mellor: The Civil War revealed the dirty secret of the Empire: that power really rested on military force. Anyone who had sufficient military might at his back could make a run at the imperial throne. And any Emperor in the future would have to bear that in mind.
Rome was now a military dictatorship, and the empire's citizens braced for an uncertain future. Vespasian restored the war-torn capital by building temples, a theater, and by beginning a massive amphitheater, later called the Colosseum. Vespasian also constructed something less tangible — a fresh image for the position of Emperor. Suetonius describes him:
Vespasian was almost always in high spirits, his sense of humor often scurrilous and off-color. Once, his son Titus scolded the Emperor for his unseemly new tax on public toilets. Vespasian held a coin up to his son's nose and asked whether the odor caused offense. And when Titus denied it, Vespasian said: "But it comes from piss."
Vespasian approached the business of government with an earthy humor and common sense rarely shown by his predecessors. He was frugal, and expenditures were financed by new taxes. After decades in which Romans endured abuse and uncertainty, Vespasian became much more than a conquering general. He became the empire's hope for stability.
Keith Bradley: Vespasian — an adventurer in politics — was able to found the new, and he held onto power for ten years, against the odds, one might say. He was able to restore the stability that Augustus had first introduced many decades earlier.
All of Rome benefited from Vespasian's steady hand. But, in the year 79 AD, the Emperor became gravely ill. Vespasian knew he was dying, but his humor remained to the end. "Oh dear!" he quipped, mocking Rome's habit of deifying dead Emperors, "I think I'm becoming a god."
Vespasian had brought Rome through its gravest crisis of the century — civil war — and left the empire stronger and more resilient than ever. But he also passed on a troubled legacy. "My sons will succeed me," he declared openly, "or no one will." The empire was still plagued by the scourge of hereditary rule, and Vespasian had done nothing to change that.

Titus
Titus was already a veteran of Roman politics before becoming Emperor upon his father's death. He had been instrumental in persuading Vespasian to seek the throne, and had continued his father's campaign against the Jewish rebels after Vespasian's march on Italy.
He'd proved an able commander by smashing the remaining rebel forces, and was responsible for the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 AD. He later served as the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and de facto head of state, during Vespasian's reign.
With Vespasian's death, Rome braced itself for Titus' ascent to the throne. He had earned a reputation for ruthlessness, and offended the Roman elite by keeping the Jewish princess Berenice as his mistress. Titus soon earned Rome's admiration, however, by ruling with a fair and steady hand. He opened the Colosseum and held gladiatorial games to calm the public during time of economic hardship. Despite being plagued by a series of natural disasters — including the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius — Titus's reign was regarded as a success. Upon his death, however, Rome faced a very different situation.

Domitian
In the year 81 AD, Vespasian's youngest son, Domitian, ascended to power. As the biographer Suetonius recounts, he would prove to be as terrible a tyrant as any who had come before:
Early in his rule, he would seclude himself for hours, catching flies and sticking them with sharpened pens. So that once when someone asked whether anyone was inside with the Emperor, a palace wit cleverly replied: "Not even a fly." Domitian's savagery was unexpected. He once called a steward into his bedroom to dine. The next day the man was crucified.
Domitian indulged mercurial whims, launched treason trials, and executed or banished even his mildest critics. In the year 96 AD, Rome once again shed its despot. Domitian was murdered by a group which included his own wife.

Nerva
Nerva, who shared a consulship in 90 AD with Domitian, was now named Emperor. He had spent a lifetime in service of Rome and its Emperors, and proved to be conservative and fair-minded. He promised the Senate that he would never put any of its members to death, and kept his oath, even in the face of mutinies.
Casperius Aelianus, whom Nerva had named prefect of the Praetorian Guard, led the most damaging of these mutinies. Enraged by Domitian's assassination, the Guard stormed the palace, demanding the execution of the late Emperor's murders. Nerva presented himself to them, baring his neck. The soldiers only laughed at him, and proceeded to kill many of Nerva's friends and associates. Nerva thanked them for executing justice, but he had been humiliated. His will was broken.

Trajan
At the end of Nerva's life in 98 AD, events followed a remarkable new course. For the first time, Roman generals cooperated to choose the next Emperor, compelling Nerva to adopt an acceptable heir from outside his own family. It was startlingly innovative, and the result was resoundingly successful, for the next major Emperor to rule Rome was a Spanish-born Senator and general named Trajan. His reign took Rome one more step toward universality. Now, educated and wealthy men from all over the empire became eligible for the highest office.
Trajan expanded the Roman Empire to its greatest geographic size, extended prosperity to levels of society not before reached, and launched public works, tax relief, and a child welfare program. Statesman and author Pliny the Younger publicly praised the new Emperor:
We are suffering no longer; there is no need to flatter him as a god. We speak not about a tyrant but a fellow citizen, not a master but a parent. He is one of us and remembers that though he rules over men, he is himself a man.
Trajan would close the door on the empire's defining epoch, and hold on to power until 117 AD. He set the course for generations to come, and projected the collective voice of the first century across two millennia, where it resonates today.
Andrew Wallace-Hadrill: Europe today draws on the power of image created by the Roman Empire... Rome takes the cultural systems developed initially in the eastern Mediterranean and spreads them... in a dramatic way and lays the foundations... of a whole cultural zone that is our modern Europe.
Judith Hallett: The first century provided us with a powerful model for a global society consisting of people from different ethnicities and different cultures, who were able to unite on certain fronts, and remain distinct and separate in others.
Allen Callahan: In the first century we see into the very teeth of the most powerful system of imperial domination that the world had ever seen up to that time. So right in the midst of that, the fluorescence of a notion of human freedom, that grows up like a lotus out of the mud pond of Roman domination.
The Roman Empire would survive for centuries to come. But the men and women of the first century left a legacy for the ages — deserving, forever, "the full light of fame."

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The Legend of Augustus
Two thousand years after Egypt's pharaohs reigned supreme, four hundred years after the flowering of Greek culture, and three hundred years after Alexander the Great, a boy named Octavian was born in a small Italian town. The birth of the child who would become known as Augustus, the ancient historian Suetonius tells us, was gilded by legend:
His father, leading an army through distant lands, went to a sacred grove, seeking prophecy on the boy's future. When wine was poured on the altar, flames shot up to heaven — a sign seen only once before: by Alexander the Great. The priest declared that Augustus would be ruler of the world.
In truth, he writes, the prospects of young Augustus were far from grand. The boy was sickly, with few connections. His family were country people; his father, the first in their line to join the Senate. In addition, Augustus was born into dangerous times.
Civil war had flared for decades. Feuding nobles — many controlling large armies — fought to gain power for themselves, and Rome's traditions of open government were often trampled underfoot. The Roman Republic, the most progressive political structure of its day, was in ruins. Chaos reigned in its stead.
Following Caesar's death, Augustus formed a strategic alliance with Marc Antony — a powerful general who also wanted supremacy. Together, they massacred their enemies in the capital, then pursued their rivals to the shores of Greece — where they fought and won two of the bloodiest battles in Roman history. When the carnage ended, the empire was theirs. Augustus, Antony and Caesar's ally Lepidus divided the spoils of war and formed the Second Triumvirate, a political union that gave each man rule over a third of the empire.
Augustus remained in Rome, while Antony took control of Egypt — a land not formally joined to Rome, but firmly under the empire's command. There, he joined forces with Egypt's queen, Cleopatra. When Antony fell deeply in love with his beautiful new ally, many feared the ambitious queen was scheming to rule Rome herself. Similar rumors had spread during her earlier alliance with Julius Caesar. Ancient historians, like Cassius Dio, believed that was a fateful move:
Cleopatra's brazen desire for passion and wealth was insatiable. By love she had made herself queen of Egypt. But she failed in her goal to become queen of the Romans.
Judith Hallett: Cleopatra did not enjoy a good press in Rome. What really irritated many of our sources about Cleopatra is that she was a powerful woman, from a foreign, Eastern country, which had a monarchic system of government as well as great wealth. And therefore, she was viewed as lacking in moderation, lacking in self-control, being emotional, being everything that the Roman self-definition was not.
Cleopatra and Antony were cast as the leaders of the evil empire. Antony's alliance with Augustus withered. He and Cleopatra mobilized, but, in 31 BC, at the Battle of Actium, Augustus struck first. The poet Virgil later cast the battle as an epic struggle of east against west:
Standing high on the stern, Augustus leads the Italians into battle, carrying with him the might of the Senate and the people. Opposing him, with barbarian wealth, is Antony, suited for battle. He carries with him the powers of the Orient and — to the scandal of all — his Egyptian wife. Their monstrous divinities raise weapons against our noble Roman gods.
Three-quarters of the Egyptian fleet was destroyed. Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide, and the land of the pharaohs was formally annexed to the Roman Empire.
Judith Hallett: The annexation of Egypt, for Augustus, was immensely important. It was the equivalent of Hitler's troops marching through the streets of Paris. Here was a wealthy country that was going to be providing food, that was going to be providing land. But above all, it was a country of great cultural prestige. And once Rome had Egypt as part of its empire, they had truly arrived.
Upon Augustus' return to a war-torn Rome in 29 BC, the city went wild with enthusiasm. The triumphant general vowed to restore peace and security — and it was a promise he would keep. A Roman soldier wrote:
There is nothing that men can wish from the gods; nothing the gods can do for men which Augustus — when he returned to the city — did not do for the Republic, the Roman People, and the entire world. Civil wars were finished; foreign wars ended, and everywhere the fury of arms was put to rest.
The victory of Augustus against Egypt launched a period of stunning cultural vitality, of religious renewal, and of economic well-being that spread throughout the empire. It would be known as the Pax Romana — the peace of Rome — and, to many, it marked the return of Rome's mythic and glorious past.
But Augustus himself would never return to the past. Thirteen years of war and intrigue had changed him forever. Lepidus, once Augustus' ally, attempted to oust him by sending his legions to fight him. His attempt failed, and Augustus stripped him of his Roman titles and removed him from power. Augustus, now a hardened 32-year-old man, became the sole ruler of the Greco-Roman world: Rome's first Emperor.
Victory had been costly, but the greatest challenge still lay ahead. To avoid the fate of Julius Caesar, Augustus had to both disarm the Senate and charm the masses. He had to do better than win the war. He had to win the peace. It was a challenge that would occupy the rest of his life A Man of Action
The new Emperor thrived as a man of action. Augustus forged the empire through his will, and expanded it through military might. Egypt had been added early in his career and soon, northern Spain was conquered. Augustus drove across Europe into Germany, and united east and west by adding modern Hungary, Austria, the Balkans and central Turkey.
Augustus then rebuilt both Rome, and his own family. Divorcing his wife, Augustus married his heavily pregnant mistress, Livia. The move raised eyebrows — and hackles — for love was not the only motive. Although Augustus shunned the trappings of absolute power, many suspected he was building a dynasty — a line of heirs to rule Rome for generations to come.
But even as he spawned his dynasty, Augustus knew it was a dangerous move. Julius Caesar had been murdered for appearing to be a king, and Augustus would not make the same mistake. He relinquished high office, and struck a delicate balance between fact and fiction.
Judith Hallett: Augustus was a very cagey political leader because he pretended to be restoring all of the Republican political traditions and in fact what he was running was a full-fledged dynastic monarchy.
The volatile mix that made up Rome stayed quiet for the first four years of Augustus' rule. Then, in 23 BC, events took a critical turn. The historian Cassius Dio writes that a series of disasters convinced the people that Augustus needed — not less power — but more:
The city was flooded by the overflowing river. And many things were struck by lightening. Then a plague passed through Italy and no one could work the land. The Romans thought these misfortunes were caused because Augustus had relinquished his office. They wished to appoint him dictator. A mob barricaded the Senate inside its building and, threatening to burn them alive, forced the Senate to vote Augustus absolute ruler.
The demands threatened to unsettle the Emperor's precarious political balance. Augustus fell to his knees before the rioters. He tore his toga and beat his chest. He promised the mob that he would personally take control of the grain supply. But Augustus refused to be called a dictator.
The crowd disbanded. But the lesson was clear: Augustus was riding a tiger. To keep order on the frontiers, the streets, and the Senate was a superhuman task, and superhuman skills were needed. Luckily for Rome, Augustus had them.
Amid the applause, however, there were also cries of protest. The Emperor's new traditionalism rankled friends and enemies alike. The constant strife wore heavily on Augustus, eroding his vitality. In the year 4 AD, Augustus was an old man of 66, and had lost much of the youthful vigor that sustained him throughout his career. Suetonius paints a portrait of an increasingly feeble man:
His vision had faded in his left eye. His teeth were few, widely spaced, and worn down. His hair, wispy and yellowed. His skin was irritated by scratching and vehement scraping so that he had chronic rough spots resembling ringworm.
Following the Civil Wars, some women in Rome had gained political clout, new rights, and new freedoms. Tradition holds that one such woman was Julia, Augustus' only child. Julia didn't reject traditional values wholesale; she had long endured her father's over-bearing control, and dutifully married three times to further his dynastic ambitions.
Her last marriage — to Augustus' eventual heir Tiberius — was a disaster. Augustus forced Tiberius to divorce his beloved wife Vipsania Agrippina to marry the widowed Julia in 11 BC. Tiberius loathed Julia, and within five years abandoned her in Rome and retired to the island of Rhodes.
Julia remained a prominent figure in Roman society. Her two boys — Gaius and Lucius — were cherished by Augustus as probable heirs. She was clever and vivacious. And she had an irreverent tongue that cut across the grain of Roman convention. Her legendary wit was passed through the centuries by a late-Roman writer called Macrobius:
Several times her father ordered her, in a manner both doting and scolding, to moderate her lavish clothes and keep less mischievous company. Once he saw her in a revealing dress. He disapproved, but held his tongue. The next day, in a different dress, she embraced her father with modesty. He could not contain his joy and said: "Now isn't this dress more suited to the daughter of Augustus?" Julia retorted, "Today I am dressed for my father's eyes; yesterday I dressed for my husband's."
But apparently Julia's charms were not reserved for her husband alone. The Emperor's daughter took many lovers, and her behavior erupted into a full-blown political crisis. The traditional society of Rome was shocked to the core, not only by the knowledge of her lovers, but also by many other exaggerated claims. The Emperor's daughter was rumored to hold nightly revels in Rome's public square. She was said to barter sexual favors from the podium where her father addressed the people.
Judith Hallett: Her dalliances were so well known that people were actually surprised when her children resembled her second husband, who was the father of her five children, and she wittily replied, "Well that's because I never take on a passenger unless I already have a full cargo," meaning that she waited until she was already pregnant before undertaking these dalliances — so concerned was she to protect the blood lines of these offspring.
When the gossip reached Augustus, the Emperor flew into a violent rage. He refused to see visitors. Upon emerging, Suetonius reports, he publicly denounced his only child. As a father, Augustus could not abide Julia's behavior; as an Emperor, he could not tolerate the embarrassment. Augustus banished Julia for the rest of her life. Suetonius writes:
He wrote a letter advising the Senate of her misbehavior, but was absent when it was read. He secluded himself out of shame and even considered a death sentence for his daughter. He grew more obstinate when the Roman people came to him several times begging for her sake. He cursed the crowd that they should have such daughters and such wives.
She never would be reconciled with her father Augustus. In 14 AD, Tiberius, now reigning as Emperor, cut off her allowance. She died of malnutrition in exile later that year.
As Augustus neared death, plots to succeed him sprouted. His two grandsons and intended heirs had both died unexpectedly, and the Emperor himself lived under constant threat of assassination. Speaking for Augustus, one ancient historian voiced his dilemma. "Whereas solitude is dreadful," he wrote, "company is also dreadful. The very men who protect us are most terrifying."
Andrew Wallace-Hadrill: In many ways, Augustus looks so solid, and what he created looked so solid, you forget the fragility. I think contemporaries were very aware of that fragility. And surely Augustus was. He was overanxious in a sense to provide a secure system after he'd gone.
Ancient historians report that natural disasters predicted political ones. And indeed, the Emperor's difficulties seemed to be mounting fast. In the year 6 AD, soldiers — the backbone of the empire — refused to re-enlist without a pay raise. New funds had to be found. Then, fire swept parts of the capital. A reluctant Augustus turned to taxation.
It was a dangerous tactic, and the Emperor knew it. Fearing a coup, Augustus recessed the courts and disbanded the Senate. He even dismissed his own retinue. Still, Rome remained on edge. Cassius Dio recalls:
The mob, distressed by the famine and the taxes after the fire, were unsettled. They openly discussed rebellion. When night fell, they hung seditious posters.
The crisis passed. But soon, a new and even greater disaster battered the aging Augustus. It began in Germany — a land of fiercely independent tribes and, to the Roman eye, rugged barbarism. The region had been recently conquered, and Roman customs were taking root... or so they thought. Cassius Dio wrote about the situation:
The barbarians had not forgotten their ancient traditions, their free way of life or the power of arms. But, as long as they were assimilated slowly, they did not realize they were changing and did not resist Roman influence.
That peaceful cultural evolution stopped however, in the year 9 AD — the year an arrogant young general called Quinctilius Varus became commander of the Rhine army and brought an iron fist to the province. Cassius Dio described his methods:
He forced more drastic change on the barbarians. And, among other things, he dealt with them as if they were slaves of the Romans and exacted money as if they were his subjects.
Varus disastrously miscalculated the extent of Roman control, and misjudged German compliance. A trusted German chieftain organized a full-scale revolt and lured Varus' troops into a trap deep in unfamiliar terrain. Cassius Dio described the result:
The mountains were rocky and cut with ravines. The trees were dense and tall, so that the Romans were struggling to make progress. Rain began to fall in sheets and a heavy wind scattered their numbers. The ground became slippery around the tree trunks and roots. While the Romans were dealing with these troubles, the barbarians surrounded them, suddenly coming from everywhere. First they hurled missiles from afar. But then, since no one was fighting back and many were wounded, the barbarians came ever closer. And the Romans were unable to retaliate. They kept crashing into each other and the trees. They could not grip their arrows or javelins; the rain forced the weapons from their hands. Even their sodden shields were useless. And so every man and every horse was slaughtered.
Three legions were massacred — a tenth of Rome's army. The disaster in Germany underscored a stark reality: the empire was born of violence and to violence it ever threatened to return. Augustus, who had spared Romans from such violence for so long, was traumatized. His biographer Suetonius reported:
They say he was so disturbed that for several months he let his hair and beard grow and would sometimes bash his head on doors and cry out: "Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!"
Augustus continued to cling to power — and life — for nearly a decade beyond this crisis. The empire that he had created was now more than a collection of conquered lands. It was a far-flung society of vibrant commerce and frequent travel. By the year 14 AD, the people of modern day France, Turkey, Syria, Greece, Spain and North Africa were all part of Rome. They contributed to its wealth and gained from its protection.
But the family of Rome also included some troubling members: Egypt — conquered some 45 years earlier — remained an exotic land of disturbing power. Judaea — added, too, a half-century before — was a tinderbox. In Germany, local tribes resisted full subjugation. And at Augustus' death, Britain — once claimed by Julius Caesar for Rome — still lay tantalizingly beyond his grasp.
In the year 14 AD, as he lay dying, Augustus assumed a philosophical air. "Did I play my part well in this comedy of life?" he asked. The answer was a resounding "yes." The Senate declared Augustus a god, and as he passed into legend, he passed the torch of leadership to a man who had stood in the shadows for fifty years — his grown stepson, Tiberius.
Augustus had been a towering figure. He had extinguished a century of civil war, and presided over 40 years of internal peace and prosperity. He forged the vision and power that cemented the empire together.
But the peace of Augustus came at a price. By the end of his life, Augustus had eclipsed the Senate, ruled as a monarch, and founded a dynasty that was fraught with troubles. His heirs — Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero — would lead Rome through years of political terror, imperial madness and assassination.
As Augustus neared death, plots to succeed him sprouted. His two grandsons and intended heirs had both died unexpectedly, and the Emperor himself lived under constant threat of assassination. Speaking for Augustus, one ancient historian voiced his dilemma. "Whereas solitude is dreadful," he wrote, "company is also dreadful. The very men who protect us are most terrifying."
Andrew Wallace-Hadrill: In many ways, Augustus looks so solid, and what he created looked so solid, you forget the fragility. I think contemporaries were very aware of that fragility. And surely Augustus was. He was overanxious in a sense to provide a secure system after he'd gone.
Ancient historians report that natural disasters predicted political ones. And indeed, the Emperor's difficulties seemed to be mounting fast. In the year 6 AD, soldiers — the backbone of the empire — refused to re-enlist without a pay raise. New funds had to be found. Then, fire swept parts of the capital. A reluctant Augustus turned to taxation.
It was a dangerous tactic, and the Emperor knew it. Fearing a coup, Augustus recessed the courts and disbanded the Senate. He even dismissed his own retinue. Still, Rome remained on edge. Cassius Dio recalls:
The mob, distressed by the famine and the taxes after the fire, were unsettled. They openly discussed rebellion. When night fell, they hung seditious posters.
The crisis passed. But soon, a new and even greater disaster battered the aging Augustus. It began in Germany — a land of fiercely independent tribes and, to the Roman eye, rugged barbarism. The region had been recently conquered, and Roman customs were taking root... or so they thought. Cassius Dio wrote about the situation:
The barbarians had not forgotten their ancient traditions, their free way of life or the power of arms. But, as long as they were assimilated slowly, they did not realize they were changing and did not resist Roman influence.
That peaceful cultural evolution stopped however, in the year 9 AD — the year an arrogant young general called Quinctilius Varus became commander of the Rhine army and brought an iron fist to the province. Cassius Dio described his methods:
He forced more drastic change on the barbarians. And, among other things, he dealt with them as if they were slaves of the Romans and exacted money as if they were his subjects.
Varus disastrously miscalculated the extent of Roman control, and misjudged German compliance. A trusted German chieftain organized a full-scale revolt and lured Varus' troops into a trap deep in unfamiliar terrain. Cassius Dio described the result:
The mountains were rocky and cut with ravines. The trees were dense and tall, so that the Romans were struggling to make progress. Rain began to fall in sheets and a heavy wind scattered their numbers. The ground became slippery around the tree trunks and roots. While the Romans were dealing with these troubles, the barbarians surrounded them, suddenly coming from everywhere. First they hurled missiles from afar. But then, since no one was fighting back and many were wounded, the barbarians came ever closer. And the Romans were unable to retaliate. They kept crashing into each other and the trees. They could not grip their arrows or javelins; the rain forced the weapons from their hands. Even their sodden shields were useless. And so every man and every horse was slaughtered.
Three legions were massacred — a tenth of Rome's army. The disaster in Germany underscored a stark reality: the empire was born of violence and to violence it ever threatened to return. Augustus, who had spared Romans from such violence for so long, was traumatized. His biographer Suetonius reported:
They say he was so disturbed that for several months he let his hair and beard grow and would sometimes bash his head on doors and cry out: "Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!"
Augustus continued to cling to power — and life — for nearly a decade beyond this crisis. The empire that he had created was now more than a collection of conquered lands. It was a far-flung society of vibrant commerce and frequent travel. By the year 14 AD, the people of modern day France, Turkey, Syria, Greece, Spain and North Africa were all part of Rome. They contributed to its wealth and gained from its protection.
But the family of Rome also included some troubling members: Egypt — conquered some 45 years earlier — remained an exotic land of disturbing power. Judaea — added, too, a half-century before — was a tinderbox. In Germany, local tribes resisted full subjugation. And at Augustus' death, Britain — once claimed by Julius Caesar for Rome — still lay tantalizingly beyond his grasp.
In the year 14 AD, as he lay dying, Augustus assumed a philosophical air. "Did I play my part well in this comedy of life?" he asked. The answer was a resounding "yes." The Senate declared Augustus a god, and as he passed into legend, he passed the torch of leadership to a man who had stood in the shadows for fifty years — his grown stepson, Tiberius.
Augustus had been a towering figure. He had extinguished a century of civil war, and presided over 40 years of internal peace and prosperity. He forged the vision and power that cemented the empire together.
But the peace of Augustus came at a price. By the end of his life, Augustus had eclipsed the Senate, ruled as a monarch, and founded a dynasty that was fraught with troubles. His heirs — Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero — would lead Rome through years of political terror, imperial madness and assassination.