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 If that was withdrawn, his day would soon be done.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 prompted 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.