According to Tacitus, the author of the codicillus was Gaius Sallustius Crispus, who, like Maecenas, did not trouble to hold public office, but operated behind the scenes. The grand-nephew of the historian Sallust, he became a “repository of imperial secrets.”
Alarmed by Tiberius’ decision to open Agrippa’s death to public debate, Sallustius warned Livia that “palace secrets, and the advice of friends, and services performed by the army, were best undivulged…. The whole point of autocracy is that the accounts will not come right unless the ruler is the only auditor.”
Tiberius was persuaded to remain silent. The matter was closed.
How should we best interpret the events surrounding the death of Augustus? The regime realized that the transition from one princeps to another, from the dominance of one man to the establishment of a dynasty, would be a time of great danger. All concerned took great pains to make everything run as smoothly as possible. The most likely threats would stem from civil dissidence in Italy and mutiny among the legions on the imperial frontiers. The focus for any trouble would be Agrippa Postumus, the last male representative of the Julian line.
The imagined account with which this book opens is an attempt to tell a coherent and feasible story of what occurred while rejecting as little as possible of the surviving ancient narratives. It incorporates most, but not quite all, that the sources report. It plausibly assumes that all the leading players—Augustus, Tiberius, and Livia, together with their advisers—devised a transition plan and were determined ruthlessly to implement it, whatever their personal feelings.
The most important charges that I have rejected are that Augustus changed his mind about who should succeed him and wanted to replace Tiberius with Agrippa, and that Livia acted to defeat him. Both are highly unlikely. Once the princeps had committed himself to Tiberius, whatever his reservations, he did everything within his power to promote his new co-ruler’s interests. Even the minor decision to accompany him to Beneventum was a clear and public statement of support. In the absence of concrete knowledge, Roman historians filled in the gap by reference to the traditional image of the wicked stepmother, ever eager to supplant a true heir with her own child.
This does not mean that we have to reject the trip to Planasia. Modern scholars argue that Augustus was far too frail to undertake such an arduous journey, but this is unconvincing if we recall that in the days immediately before his death he was willing to travel by road to the Pomptine Marshes, sail to Capri and back to Italy, and then resume his journey to Beneventum, before retracing his steps.
Augustus’ motive for the journey may have been purely sentimental; but the record of the way he treated his close relatives suggests a ruthlessness that precluded emotion. More probably, as I suggested, he wanted to assess whether Agrippa was in an insurrectionary frame of mind, and to reduce the chance that he would join an anti-Tiberius plot by feeding him delusive hopes of a return to favor at Rome.
If that was how things stood, there was no particular need to keep Livia in the dark. But whether or not she knew of what was afoot, Augustus was annoyed with Fabius Maximus because, by confiding in his wife, he had breached the total secrecy that was meant to cover the operation—in much the same way that Maecenas’ gossiping to Terentia about her brother’s conspiracy had led to his loss of influence with the princeps. A high value was placed on confidentiality at the court of Augustus. (However, Marcia’s grief at her husband’s funeral did not necessarily mean he had committed suicide; disgrace could have triggered an illness, such as a heart attack.)
In the introductory chapter, I proposed that Augustus’ health unexpectedly improved, but that recovery came too late. According to this hypothesis, all the arrangements for the handover of power to Tiberius had been made and could not conveniently be revoked. It was necessary for him to die if the transition was not to falter. So, half in collusion with her victim, his loving wife, Livia, administered the poisoned figs. (Incidentally, we do know that the princeps liked the fruit, and that Livia cultivated a type of fig that was named after her; if there was a fig tree at Nola, perhaps she had had it planted.) Such a speculative explanation would account for her reported action, and accords with the gloomy sense of duty that characterized the political culture of the time. Roman history contains many examples of suicide for political reasons, and of assisted suicide.
Alternatively, and no less speculatively, it is possible that the story of the figs was a farrago invented and disseminated by people like Clemens and other populist agitators, to suggest mendaciously that Augustus did mean to designate Postumus as his true heir. Once again, the easy slander of Livia as the wicked stepmother dispensing poisoned fruit was too tempting to resist. It is puzzling, though, that a tale from so tainted and unrespectable a source should have had sufficient currency to enter the historical record. The truth of Augustus’ death will never be known.
Finally, we must consider who originated the order to kill Postumus. Suetonius sums up the options: “Some doubt remains whether this order was left by Augustus to be acted on when he died; or whether Livia wrote it in his name; or whether, if so, Tiberius knew anything about it.”
Sallustius can be acquitted, for even if he penned the codicillus, he will hardly have done so unprompted. Although Tiberius was the beneficiary, it is doubtful that he was involved, or had even been told about it. His angry insistence that Agrippa’s death be debated by the Senate argues innocence of both the deed and the knowledge.
Livia seems never to have directly intervened in politics or initiated political action, but she was known to wield influence. For Sallustius to ask her to use her good offices with Tiberius was a sensible idea, not necessarily sinister. That the commander reported to Tiberius rather than her also tends to exonerate her. It is conceivable that she forged a letter from the princeps, but from what we know of her this would have been out of character.
By far the most probable culprit was Augustus himself. It is true, as Tacitus points out, that he had never before had any of his blood relations executed, but we know that he could act unforgivingly against those of them who threatened him. He killed Caesarion, Julius Caesar’s illegitimate son, without a qualm, and treated the two Julias harshly. The visit to Planasia does suggest that he found the decision to kill his grandson difficult to make.
Augustus’ signet ring was removed from his finger. His eyes were closed. Tiberius, being his closest relative, called him by name and said, “Vale,” “Farewell.” Slaves belonging to undertakers washed and perfumed the corpse. A coin was placed in its mouth, to pay the ferryman to carry Augustus’ spirit across the river Styx to the underworld.
The body was carried to Rome on the shoulders of senators from the neighboring municipalities and colonies of veterans. The August heat was insupportable and the journey was conducted by night. In the daytime the dead man lay in state in the town hall or principal temple of each halting place.
At Rome, Augustus’ will was read out. The preamble ran: “Since fate has cruelly carried off my sons Gaius and Lucius, Tiberius shall inherit two thirds of my property”—a less than ringing endorsement of his chief heir. Tiberius received one hundred million sesterces, and Livia fifty million. Ninety million sesterces was set aside for small individual bequests to the soldiery and the people.
All of this was as might be expected. However, the princeps, so cautious and patient in his lifetime, sprang an astonishing surprise from beyond the grave: he adopted his wife. Just as Tiberius received the name of Augustus, so Livia received that of Augusta. As Augustus’ daughter, she became a member of the Julian clan, and from now on was known as Julia Augusta.