095 - The Beginning of the End

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Hello and welcome to the History of Rome, Episode 95, The Beginning of the End. Don't worry about the title of this episode. The transition from Marcus Aurelius to his son Commodus is usually pointed to as the point at which the luck of the Roman Empire began to run out. But it has also been joked on more than one occasion that as decline phases go, we should all be so lucky to enjoy one as long as the Romans did. We are still 300 years from the last Roman Emperor and more than a thousand years from the fall of Constantinople. To put it another way, the United States has officially been a big-ass state for about 230 years, which would fit neatly into the pocket of Rome's quote, decline phase. So for those of you who might fear that we are nearing the end of our little podcast, don't worry. Focus on the fact that this is merely the beginning of the end. There is still a lot to cover. The only difference is that rather than talking about what battles the Romans won and what territory they added to the empire, we'll be talking about what battles they lost and what territory they abandoned.

Something whose end is rapidly approaching, though, is Augustus' Principate. Just as the Republic cracked and by necessity gave way to a new imperial system, so too is the Principate now on the verge of cracking, and by necessity giving way to a new system, which scholars have usually dubbed the Dominate. After the fall of Commodus, the often troubled Severan dynasty will begin the transition away from the convenient fictions that the Emperor is merely the first citizen and the Senate still maintains its ancient power, to a more authoritarian and more militant political order. When the Severans were toppled, the crisis period of the mid-third century, roughly analogous to the civil wars of the first century BC, finally obliterated the Rome of Augustus and Vespasian and Hadrian, just as Caesar's civil wars had obliterated the Rome of Camillus and Cato and Cicero. Rome would, surprisingly, live through the crisis, but what would come out the other side would be a very different animal than what went in. The empire would no longer be a quasi-republican, magisterial dictatorship. Instead, it would be transformed by Aurelian and Diocletian into a quasi-divine monarchy, almost in the mode of ancient Persia. Commodus then earns the distinction of being the last true princeps, and since he turned out to be such a disaster, Marcus Aurelius earns the distinction of being the last good princeps.

Not that Marcus didn't try to ensure that Commodus would be up to the task. He gave the boy a great education, introduced him to military affairs, and took him along on his one extended tour of the empire, but in the end it seems that Commodus just wasn't having it. He was growing into a man far more in the mold of his uncle Lucius Verus than in the mold of his father, so much so that it was an accepted fact in Rome that Commodus was not actually Marcus' son at all, and that he was, in fact, the product of an affair between Faustina and a gladiator. Commodus loved games and gambling and spectacle and partying, all the things his father utterly disdained.

Setting aside any psychoanalytical reasons for Commodus turning out to be the exact opposite of his father, the boy did face a considerable uphill battle on the road to becoming a conscientious, serious, and virtuous man. He was, after all, the first emperor who was born to the purple, as they say. Surprising as it is, thus far, not a single Roman emperor was himself born to an emperor. Not Augustus, or Tiberius, or Caligula, or Claudius, or Nero, or Galba, or Otho, or Vitellius, or Vespasian, or Titus, or Domitian, or Nerva, or Trajan, or Hadrian, or Marcus Aurelius. Only Titus and Domitian were even the blood sons of an emperor, and they spent their formative years as the obscure sons of a minor politician in general. But Commodus was born shortly after Marcus became emperor, and was thus raised in the palace as true Roman royalty, surrounded by all the pleasures indulgent sycophants could drum up.

Much as the austere Marcus did his best to mold Commodus in his own image, he stood little chance against the spoiling atmosphere that crowned princes are often submerged in. Marcus could see what was happening, and openly worried that he was raising another Nero, but for all his stoic wisdom, he fell victim to the realities of fraternal love, and when he wasn't maintaining a strict regimen of denial, he was rationalizing away his son's behavior. After all, hadn't Philip II been mortified at how Alexander the Great was turning out? And he turned out to be Alexander the Great. So there's no reason to believe Commodus won't turn it around once he matures a bit.

People have often wondered, though, why Marcus of all people would break with the imperial tradition of adopting a worthy heir, and instead choose to hand it all over to a son who was pretty clearly a bad egg, and who was pretty clearly not going to mature into Alexander the Great one day. The answer involves some speculation on our part, but in the first case, we should never forget that the reason why every previous Roman emperor had adopted an heir was because there were simply very few blood sons to be had. There were, in fact, only two emperors who died with living sons, Vespasian, who left the throne to Titus, and Claudius, who had wanted to leave the throne to Britannicus, but was manipulated into adopting Nero instead. For every other emperor, heir adoption was not an explicit policy, or even a preferred mode of succession, it was the result of inescapable circumstance. Augustus tried like mad to get anyone with a blood connection to him in power, but was forced by fate to roll with Tiberius instead.

Beyond the simple fact that just about every emperor probably would have left the throne to his son had they had the chance, the further fact is that not letting Commodus succeed him brought with it its own problems. In his recent biography of Marcus Aurelius, Frank MacLynn talks about Marcus' quandary at length, after relaying Septimius Severus' quote that Marcus' great mistake was not killing the rotten Commodus when he had the chance. In MacLynn's formulation, Marcus was faced with a stark choice. Either he had to kill Commodus, or promote him. There was no middle ground. When, for what I hope are easy to understand reasons, Marcus did not assassinate his own son, he had no choice then but to make him emperor. The alternative would have been to leave the empire with all the ingredients for a civil war. There would naturally be, either out of jealousy, spite, or stifled ambition, those opposed to whoever Marcus decided to adopt in Commodus' place. Those disgruntled elements would likely, as we have seen in other times and places, rally around the overlooked crown prince, whispering in his ear that it was outrageous and unjust that his birthright had been stolen by some usurper, and then, voila, civil war. Had Marcus left Commodus both alive and out of power, we might be talking about that decision as one of the great blunders in history. And the alternative left to Marcus, the not blunder choice, as it were, meant killing his own son. Are we really supposed to fault him for not going down that road?

Marcus and Commodus arrived back in Rome in late 176, and the emperor quickly set about promoting his son politically. The emperor had already granted his son the title Germanicus, in recognition of, oh, I guess the fact that he had been physically present at the front. And now, upon their return to the capital, Marcus shared his triumphal parade with the young man, and they stood side by side in a gleaming chariot as the procession made its way through the city. Probably coinciding with the triumph, though the chronology is a bit hazy, Marcus commissioned his own triumphal column, an intricate spiral relief monument to rival that of Trajan's, telling the story of Marcus' victories along the Danube. The column still stands today, and as I hinted, it is one of the key pieces of evidence we have for putting together a narrative of the Marcomannic Wars. The depiction of the rain miracle is perhaps the most famous panel, but the section usefully depicting a proto-democratic German council of war is also often pointed to by anthropologists of early German history.

As the column winds its way up, and the momentum of war shifts away from the Germans, we are treated to multiple depictions of a larger than life Marcus overseeing prisoners, beheadings, and wailing families. Today, these panels act as a sort of Rorschach test for the viewer, with some claiming to see Marcus playing the part of merciful conqueror, offering clemency to the captured, while others see stoic Marcus playing the part of harsh realist, and ordering the executions to proceed. The History of Rome has posted a few of the more famous scenes from the column on the blog at thehistoryofrome.typehad.com, and invites you to offer your own interpretation.

177 opened with Commodus elevated to an ordinary consulship. A consulship of particular note, not for anything Commodus did while in office, but because, at fifteen, he was the youngest consul in the history of the empire. Just as Hadrian had set a precedent whereby the rules would not apply to Marcus, Marcus himself followed the same line with Commodus. For those of you wondering who received the honor of serving as the future emperor's colleague, it was a nephew of Lucius Verus named Plotius Quintillus, who was now married to one of Marcus' daughters. Quintillus would eventually serve as an advisor to the emperor Commodus, and after being ignored in the succession battles that followed his brother-in-law's death, he would wind up committing suicide in 205 to escape execution at the hands of Septimius Severus.

The peaceful lull that the empire had enjoyed following first the cession of hostilities along the Danube, and then the abrupt end to Cassius' revolt in the east, proved to be just that, a lull, later that year. When spring arrived, the Quadi took advantage of the emperor's withdrawal from the north, and began attacking Roman positions across the frontier. They were soon joined by the Marco Mani, and once again the northern border was awash in bloody skirmishes. Marcus hoped his presence would not be required, and that the generals he left behind would be able to bottle up the menace, as he remained in Rome to focus on administrative work and the all-important task of establishing his son's legacy. In the summer of 177, Commodus was given the title Augustus, and with the honorific, the now probably sixteen-year-old boy found himself elevated to the same level of power Lucius Verus had enjoyed. Technically, father and son were now co-emperors. Coins from this period go out of their way to establish the notion of their joint and unified rule, but as with Lucius, Marcus was still in every way the senior Augusti.

Despite Marcus' hopes, the situation in Germania was refusing to solve itself. The Germans had learned from the last round of fighting, and this time refused to offer formal battles to the legions, choosing instead to use guerrilla tactics to harass the Romans. As is typical of most asymmetrical wars, whenever the Romans were able to force a battle, they usually won, but these brief moments of triumph could do little to stop the never-ending series of demoralizing raids and ambushes and traps that kept the legions harried and skittish. The situation was quickly spiraling out of control, and after resisting calls for his presence, Marcus finally relented, and in 178 began making preparations to return to the front. His final bit of business before leaving was to hastily marry Commodus to Brutia Crispina, daughter of a family distinguished mostly for their close connection to the imperial household. At the age of fifty-six, the always on the frail side Marcus had no way of knowing how much more campaigning his body would be able to handle. But when he and Commodus left Rome in the summer of 178, Marcus was content in the knowledge that his son was now recognized by everyone as Augustus, and that he was properly married and ready to carry on the imperial line. The emperor's foresight would be rewarded, if you can call Commodus' unchallenged ascension a reward, because when he left Rome this time, it would be for the last time. In less than two years, Marcus would be dead, and just as he had arranged, Commodus would face no opposition as he assumed the mantle of sole emperor.

Arriving at the front, Marcus renewed his surprisingly useful alliance with the Azeges, going so far as to allow them passage through Dacia so they could travel to and from their traditional homelands, and then set himself to the task of purging the Marcomanni and the Quadi of their hostile tendencies once and for all. As the emperor began to think about how best to accomplish his goal, he started dreaming bigger dreams than the simple strategy of maintaining Hadrian's borders had previously allowed him. Liberating himself from Hadrian's cowardice or prudence or whatever you want to call it, Marcus began to sketch out a plan to annex one or possibly even two new provinces into the empire, internally dubbed Marcomannia and Sarmatia. Together, they would have encompassed most of the Czech Republic and Slovakia, and pushed the northern border of the empire into modern Bavaria. Scholars have long pointed out that the scheme was ludicrous, and as a result, doubt the credulity of sources claiming that wise Marcus could have considered such an indefensible, literally indefensible plan, but the patience of the emperor had apparently run out, and he seems to have just wanted to swallow the entire territory into the empire so it could be rationally policed and taxed, rather than being allowed to continue on as a breeding ground for strife and chaos.

With the Azegi safely in his corner, Marcus ordered 40,000 soldiers across the Danube, and the process of conquest was initiated. The Marcomanni and Quadi refused to offer themselves in battle, and continued their guerrilla campaign, so the Romans methodically worked to sweep and hold every last piece of land until the German armies had nowhere else to hide. This being no ordinary foreign excursion, the legions began to build stone forts, rather than keeping to their mobile camps. In the late summer, the Romans were able to trap and defeat a mid-sized tribe allied with the Marcomanni. The captured Germans were marched into Lower Pannonia, where they were disarmed and settled. If this doesn't seem like the worst punishment in the world, you're right. Other than the shame of being defeated and dislodged from their traditional homeland, being moved into the empire, with its promise of eventual citizenship, was a pretty good deal.

The settlement reminds us of the toll the Antonine Plague had taken on the empire. The border provinces had become depopulated to the point that as often as the emperor was looking to destroy the tribes, he was also trying to figure out ways to resettle them peacefully on Roman land, so that they would become industrious new taxpayers. Indeed, as we'll see in a minute with the Quadi, Marcus's genocidal bent seems to have given way to a policy of integration. He no longer wanted to exterminate the Germans, he wanted to make them Romans.

By the winter of 178-179, the Quadi began to worry that the territorial squeeze Marcus had ordered was having an effect. Not only were there fewer places to hide, but there was almost no land to be fought over anymore. In response to the inevitable Roman conquest, the Quadi decided to just abandon the fight and migrate north, where they could make a new life free of Roman troubles. But though this seems like the sort of thing Marcus would have welcomed, after all, the Quadi were essentially ceding him this vast swath of new territory, so awesome, right? The Emperor instead ordered an army led by Maximianus to head the Quadi off and prevent their escape. Had the Empire been bursting at the population seams with thousands upon thousands of potential settlers ready and willing to colonize some new territory, Marcus probably would have just let the Quadi go. But Rome was enduring the opposite plight. In the hardest hit areas, the plague had cost the Empire something like 30% of its citizens. Not only was there no excess population to be had, Marcus was trying to fill the empty quarters with German settlers. So if he just let the Quadi walk away, his new provinces would remain empty and unproductive, and not paying taxes.

Maximianus succeeded in preventing the Quadi from escaping, and in doing so, set the stage for the last great battle of the Germanic Wars. The Quadi were trapped and desperate, the Marco Mani just saw their own Roman-dominated future pass before their eyes, and a third tribe, the Roxolani, were spoiling for a fight because they were bitter at having been denied all the favorable concessions their cousins the Azegis had won. Together, they determined that the guerrilla campaign was futile, and that they needed a decisive victory to prevent complete Roman envelopment. In April 179, a combined German army faced off against the legions and were utterly routed. The back of German resistance broken, once again, Marcus stood on the cusp of total victory. A few mop-up operations were all that stood between the Emperor and his new province of Marco Mania. But once again, fate stepped in to deny Marcus a final crowning glory.

While still encamped along the Danube, Marcus contracted the Antonine Plague in early 180 AD, and was forced to his deathbed. Knowing that the end was near, he refused to linger on as a shell of a man, or, more importantly, as a shell of an Emperor, and stopped eating or drinking, content to let death release him from all the mortal burdens he had spent a lifetime attempting to bear. He implored Commodus to complete the job on the Danube, but his son, who did his best to stay away from his dying and likely contagious father at the end, was already beginning to indulge in his own fantasies about what was good and bad for the Empire, and what was good and bad for Commodus. In mid-March, Marcus gathered his corps of advisors and generals, a corps who had proved during these troubled decades to be amongst the most capable men in Roman history, and implored them to guide Commodus and give the boy the benefit of their experience and wisdom. Having done all he could do, Marcus died on March 17, 180 AD. He was 59 years old, and had been sometimes Emperor and sometimes co-Emperor for almost exactly 19 years.

His death will mark a turning point in Roman history, or at least a turning point in the way we conceive of and tell the story of Roman history. There would be no sixth good Emperor. The glory and power that was Rome in the 2nd century would quickly give way to the chaos and destruction that was Rome in the 3rd century. Though we conveniently point to Commodus as providing some crucial element in the transition from good to bad, from rise to fall, the fact is that most of the seeds that eventually grew under the crisis of the 3rd century had taken root during the reign of Marcus Aurelius. Commodus may have acted as some kind of supercharged fertilizer, but it's not like he took an empire at its swinging best and single-handedly destroyed all that was good in the world.

First of all, the migration of the barbarian tribes beyond the northern frontier, specifically the rise of an interconnected and sometimes ill-defined people called the Goths, was already putting pressure on the borders in ways never before felt. From the reign of Marcus on, the Western Empire would find itself under near constant attack from these barbarian forces who were looking to raid the empire or settle within the empire or conquer the empire. In the past, the unified and disciplined legions had always been able to easily mow down the proud but undisciplined warriors of the north, but a new breed of horde was coming, one that was often led by men who had fought in the legions and who knew how to fight the Roman way, which meant that the Romans were about to lose the one competitive advantage they had always had.

Further, the Antonine Plague had sapped the strength of both the legions and the civilian population, reducing the Roman ranks at every level. Senators were dying, farmers were dying, generals were dying, infantrymen were dying, emperors were dying. Food shortages resulted, reduced tax revenue resulted, and thus an increased tax burden on those still alive resulted, and of course, the crippling of Rome's military strength resulted. The problem of manning, feeding, and paying the armies would lead to a disconnect between the interests of the people of Rome and the interests of its armies, which in turn led to the more fully developed military dictatorship of the Severan dynasty.

Finally, the brief revolt of Ovidius Cassius hinted that the unity between the eastern and western halves of the empire was beginning to crack. When all is well, everyone loves everyone else. When times get tough, everyone begins to look at everyone else as the cause of their misfortune. For those in the east, the western battles against migrating barbarians was a drain on their resources, financial as well as human, and for those in the west, the east had become practically an alien world inhabited by scheming eunuchs and oriental mystics who were destroying the moral fiber of the empire. It is fair to say that Commodus did not cause any of this, nor did he cause the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.

Next week, though, we will see what Commodus did to exacerbate the situation. Because though he got off to a good start, a botched assassination attempt early in his reign would trigger an excess of paranoia, a paranoia the young emperor would offset by retreating into a megalomaniacal fantasy world.