Augustus_ The Life of Rome's First Emperor - Anthony Everitt [184]
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