107 - The Year of the Six Emperors

Hello, and welcome to the History of Rome, episode 107, the Year of the Six Emperors. As I've mentioned a few times now, the death of Alexander Severus marked the end not just of the Severan dynasty, but also a whole epoch of Roman history. The political, economic and social bonds of the empire had been degrading for some time, and when Alexander died, they seemed to snap completely. For the next fifty years, the loyalty of the armies would turn on a dime, powerful imperial usurpers would pop up with alarming frequency, barbarian hordes would maraud across the provinces, and the civilian population would be trapped in the middle. Wars not ravaged by war would be ravaged by the disease, the famine and the economic depression that would accompany the crisis years of 235-284 AD. During this period, everything that had represented the power, the prestige, the very legitimacy of the Roman Empire was called into question. No precedents were too ancient to violate, no assumptions were too deep to challenge, and no nightmares were too scary to come true. To put it bluntly, Rome probably should have fallen right then. We should be talking about how the assassination of Alexander Severus marked the end of the Roman Empire, that the weight of internal division, external invasion and economic catastrophe was simply too much to bear. There would have been no shame in it. The empire had dominated the Mediterranean world for the last four hundred years at least. Was this not a fair time to finally slip away? But that's not what happened.

Instead of marking the end, the crisis of the third century simply marked a change, like the Second Punic War or the collapse of the Republic before it. Just as with those periods, the Rome that came out of the crisis was different than the Rome that had gone in, but it was still Rome. And just as with those earlier upheavals, it was hard for Romans at the time to recognize what a whirlwind they had entered. When you heard that Saguntum was under siege, or that an alliance had been formed between Crassus, Pompey and Caesar, you didn't immediately think, well, it looks like we're entering a tumultuous period of political, economic and social reformation. No, you probably thought, well, that's kind of an interesting development, and went about your day. This too was true of the Romans in 235, when they heard that Maximinius Thrax had overthrown Alexander. It was an interesting development, and probably not a good one, but things will probably go on like normal, right? Wrong.

Setting the precedent for the next fifty years of military turmoil, the very first thing Maximinius did after becoming emperor was double the pay of his soldiers. It was an expedient design to ensure their loyalty, but it was a decision that would come back to haunt Maximinius, as he was forced to send out a network of agents across the empire to drum up the necessary revenue so he could afford the raise. And if there is one thing that will get you hated very quickly, it's sending violent tax collectors into people's homes to strip out anything that looks shiny. The second thing he did was immediately relaunch the campaign against the Germans that Alexander had been so reluctant to get going. It goes without saying, then, that the very first people negatively impacted by the elevation of Maximinius were the Germans.

In the spring of 235, the provinces had not yet been taxed to death, and the senate had not yet had their ranks thinned by Maximinius' dangerous paranoia, so the fact that Rome had a new emperor was, for most people, not yet a life-altering event. But the Germans, well, they had gone to bed for the winter, believing that they were about to be paid a great deal of money so that the boy emperor Alexander would not have to fight them. And when they woke up in the spring, they found out that a giant Thracian general had taken control of the legions, and rather than offering them immense wealth, he was offering them only grim death. That had to have been a bit jarring. Maximinius led the legions across the Rhine on a punitive campaign that served two useful purposes. First, it would remind the Germans that there were still consequences for raiding Roman territory, and second, it would provide the plundering opportunity his men had been clamoring for. Maximinius knew that the senate wasn't going to be happy about his coup, and that was all right with him, as long as the armies of Rome were with him. Giving the men a chance to work out some of their aggressive energy in the pursuit of treasure would bind them even closer to Maximinius than they had been before.

But though the rank and file were with him to a man, Maximinius still had to worry about his officer corps, many of whom were either Alexander loyalists or aristocratic malcontents. And Maximinius was right about one thing, the senate really didn't approve of the ascension that they had just been forced to approve. Unless to deny Maximinius the prize he had seized, they dutifully ratified his election, but I think it's fair to say that no one in the senate, even the enemies of the severance, wanted to see this hulking brute of a peasant emperor lording over their noble empire. So over the course of the campaign in Germany, Maximinius had to thwart at least two murderous conspiracies, one of which was organized by elements in the senate itself.

Strangely enough, these attempts made Maximinius a bit paranoid, and, coupled with his long-simmering hatred for the upper classes, he found himself quickly on the road to purge city. From his camps in Germany, he started marking down suspect senators, equites, and military officers, who he felt rather too severan not to attempt some kind of revenge for his murder of Alexander, or too senatorial not to attempt to put the barbarian emperor back in his place. And one by one, they were fired, exiled, or killed. Whatever their ultimate fate, in all cases they were reduced to poverty, and their wealth transferred into the open purses of his soldiers. Interestingly, one of the provincial governors who Maximinius passed over, as being neither too severan nor too senatorial, was the old pro-consul of Africa, Marcus Antonius Gordianus Sempronianus. Interesting because, in a few short years, the man we call Gordian I would find himself leading the rebellion that would eventually topple Maximinius' regime. But the drawing up a prescription list was only a hobby for Maximinius, and it was always done after he was done doing what he did best, leading soldiers in battle. He spent all of 235 in the field against the Germans, and eventually won a hotly contested battle in the mire of a swamp that brought the German resistance to its knees. It was enough of a victory that Maximinius donned the lofty title Germanicus Maximus, and to help celebrate his triumph, he gave his young son the title Caesar, and named him heir to the empire. With campaign season coming to an end, Maximinius headed back to what had become his adopted home province of Pannonia, and set up winter quarters.

In his three years as emperor, Maximinius never would set foot in Rome, preferring instead to rule from the frontiers, and unlike Macrinus, who technically holds the distinction of being the first emperor never to appear in Rome, Maximinius did not snub the capital because he was unavoidably detained, but rather because he openly disdained the capital and everything it stood for. The next few years pass with some obscurity in the historical record. We know that Maximinius stayed on the frontiers, focused on defending the empire's northern border, while directing an extensive network of tax agents to canvass the provinces and squeeze as much from the citizens of the empire as they possibly could, by hook, crook, or extortion. Maximinius took the money they scrounged up and delivered it to his grateful troops, who were glad to see that they once again had an emperor who had his priorities straight, and scorned all other men. In Rome itself, and really in all the major urban centers of power, the leading men of the empire were watched like hawks for any sign of seditious activity. If that sign appeared, well, that was when people disappeared. Needless to say, Maximinius Thrax was not the most popular emperor of all time. The general population hated him for his oppressive tax policies, and the elites hated him for constantly picking off their friends and colleagues. All that this growing powder keg needed was a spark, and the whole thing would blow up in Maximinius' face.

In March of 238, the powder keg was finally lit in the province of Africa. The local population, rich landowners, middle-class businessmen, and poor laborers alike, had all finally had enough of Maximinius' extortion. When they weren't being bullied and threatened by imperial tax collectors, they were forced to endure the summary judgments of a court system that had been thoroughly corrupted. Basically, the naked theft perpetrated by imperial agents was being declared legal and proper by judges paid to always decide in favor of the regime. After a particularly galling judgment was issued, a few victimized landowners decided to pursue their grievances by other means. They returned to their estates, armed their workers, and came marching back to the city where they located and killed the official who had ruled against them. The uprising was cheered by everyone not in imperial employ, and pretty soon the whole province was in revolt. Meanwhile, sitting in the provincial capital of Carthage, probably enjoying a nice cup of tea and wondering what book he was going to read next, was Gordian I., the seventy-nine-year-old proconsul of Africa. He had been passed over by Maximinius' paranoid eye for good reason, and was as unlikely an imperial usurper as the Romans ever produced. He had been born way back in 159 to an equestrian family, and had been made a senator during the reign of Septimius Severus. He was, for his times, a unique figure. Disinterested in war and politics, he devoted much of his time to intellectual pursuits, and had written volumes on every subject under the sun. His lone public achievement of note came when he served as Aedile, and he earned the love of the people for throwing a particularly awesome series of games. Though he had over the course of his career commanded a legion now and then, and had even served as governor of Britannia, Gordian was a bookworm and a scholar, not a soldier or a politician.

Which is why when the people of Africa showed up at his doorstep demanding that he become emperor and lead them all to victory against the hated Maximinius, he was likely wondering when he was going to wake up from this strange dream. But it was no dream, and despite his protests that, among other things, he was way too old to be leading a rebellion, the people persisted and began to make menacing noises that he better lead their rebellion or else. So Gordian accepted, on the condition that they also elevate his son, who, for convenience, will call Gordian the Younger, to be his co-emperor. Whatever vigorous action this rebellion was going to require would be much better handled by a forty-six year old Gordian than a seventy-nine year old Gordian. So on March 22, 238 A.D., the second and third emperors of the year of the six emperors were proclaimed, and the revolution was on.

About a week and a half later, word reached Rome of what had happened in Africa. The senators quietly conferred with one another about the news, and agreed to meet in a closed session at the Temple of Castor to decide what to do about this most interesting development. Almost as fed up as the people of Africa, they decided after an intense meeting to ratify the elevation of the two Gordians. They emerged from the Temple, and announced to a cheering crowd that the Senate of Rome now officially recognized the two Gordians as the lawful sovereigns of the empire, and that both were to henceforth enjoy the title Augustus. Understanding the effect their declaration would have on Maximinius, who they also declared was now a public enemy, the Senate also announced that an executive council of twenty eminent senators had been created to prepare for the defense of Italy, which was sure to be invaded the minute Maximinius learned what they had done. Further committing themselves to the rebellion, the Senate dispatched messengers to all the provinces of the empire, encouraging the local magistrates to join in the uprising. And then, sealing their pact in blood, they tracked down the highest ranking official in Rome loyal to Maximinius, his Praetorian prefect, and had him assassinated.

But though the standard raised by the Gordians was being flocked to, the Gordians themselves were about to become the first victims of the imperial backlash. There was only one Roman legion stationed west of Africa, and that one legion was not controlled by the Gordians. Neighboring the province of Africa was the small imperial province of Numidia, which had been peeled off from Africa proper during the reign of Septimius Severus, and that was where the sole African legion was based. Numidia was controlled by a general who was either loyal to Maximinius, a personal enemy of the Gordians, or possibly both, and when he heard that Africa was in revolt, he immediately marched his legion to Carthage to put down the rabble. The Gordians knew all about that one legion in Numidia, and after being invested with the purple, Gordian the Younger set about raising a militia to help defend Carthage from attack. But a hastily raised militia of civilians was never going to be able to withstand a true legion composed of professional soldiers. The Africans had all the passion and dedication and heart in the world, but in the end, all of that bounced harmlessly off the shields of the Numidian legion. On April 12, the legion arrived in Carthage, and Gordian the Younger rode out at the head of his amateur army to meet them. The engagement was quick and decisive, the militia was broken apart easily, and Gordian himself was killed in the fighting. Inside the city, the elder Gordian heard what had happened to his son, and, resigned to his fate, chose to commit suicide rather than fall into the hands of the Maximinians.

It was an ironic end for a man who had spent most of his life avoiding both war and politics. After the requisite week-and-a-half waiting period, the Senators in Rome heard what had happened to their champions in Africa, and the color drained from their collective faces. Maybe they had been too quick to embrace the rebellion. In the heady rush to overthrow Maximinius, they had not stopped to fully think through the consequences of their action. They once again met in closed session, this time in the Temple of Concord, to discuss their situation. Nothing stood between Maximinius' daily obligations in Rome, except for some hastily raised militia commanded by, what, a few rich old Senators? Wasn't this exactly the situation the Gordians had just faced, but on a much larger scale? And look how that had turned out for them. Death on the battlefield or suicide in the parlor seemed to be the only choices left to them now. So maybe we should send our apologies to Maximinius for the misunderstanding, offer our supplication, and beg forgiveness.

But before they got too far down this road, a Senator rose and reminded them of something that they all knew, but were afraid to say. Their fates were sealed. There would be no mercy from Maximinius. They were all dead men. Then, following one of those rousing, let us hang together, for surely we will hang separately speeches, the Senate agreed that the only honorable thing left to do was carry on with the rebellion. So they chose from their ranks of the twenty Senators on the Executive Council, two men who they agreed would be their new sovereigns, Marcus Claudius Pupienus Maximus and Decimus Caelius Calvinus Balbinus, the fourth and fifth emperors of the year of the six emperors. The two men were chosen due to their seniority, but also due to the particular skill set each brought to the office. Pupienus was a lifelong soldier, who had made his fame and fortune serving in the legions. He had been appointed to two consul ships, had once been Prefect of Rome, and by the time of the rebellion he was one of the most prominent men in the capital. Balbinus, on the other hand, had made his name as a man of letters, an orator and poet and lawyer of great renown. He had also served two consul ships, and was admired by the other Senators not just for his brilliance, but for the fact that his loyalty was to the Senate, not to the legions. It was determined that Pupienus would immediately make for Ravenna, where he would spearhead the military defense of Italy, while Balbinus would remain in Rome and take care of the daily administration of the capital. It was a neat division of labor, but seemed the perfect answer to the empire's woes. But in reality, the partnership would not last the year.

The Senate once again emerged from their sequestered session, and announced the elevation of Pupienus and Balbinus to the citizens of Rome. Unlike their declaration ratifying the elevation of the Gordians, however, this latest announcement was not met by thunderous applause, but rather by boos, jeers, and the occasional flying object. The people had been enthusiastic about the ascension of the Gordians, because the Gordians had always been popular with the general population. People still raved about the games the elder Gordian had thrown. But now they were being offered what, a couple of old patrician Senators who had never done a thing for them, and were likely never to do a thing for them? The citizens of Rome felt that their interest had just been tossed overboard by the Senate, and so they made their displeasure known, loudly. They cried out that the only way this new senatorial regime would have any legitimacy at all, was if they also elevated another Gordian to the purple. The only other Gordian available was a thirteen-year-old boy, who was the grandson of Gordian the elder, and the nephew of Gordian the younger, which I suppose means we could call him Gordian the youngest, but instead we call him Gordian the third. Afraid that unrest in Rome would undermine the war effort, the Senate saw little reason to deny the people's request, and young Gordian was named Caesar, and junior colleague of Poupianus and Balbinus. He was the sixth of the six emperors of the year of the six emperors, and by the end of the year he would be the only one left standing.

Once the senatorial regime was accepted by the people, Poupianus headed to Ravenna to coordinate the defense of Italy. He had very little time to prepare, as it was assumed that the Danube legions would come pouring out of the Alps any day now, and, had Maximinius broke camp the minute he heard about Gordian's initial revolt, he probably could have marched unchallenged all the way to Rome. But Maximinius did not immediately break camp. He was, after all, a soldier, a soldier trained practically from birth to believe that the defense of the frontiers was his only purpose in life. So rather than immediately pack up the Danube legions and march on Italy, Maximinius spent a few crucial days arranging troop deployments so that he would not leave any space for opportunistic Germans to squeeze through. This moment of fidelity to the integrity of the empire was likely one of the key factors in Maximinius ultimately losing both the throne and his life, as it gave the Italian cities crucial time to prepare for his invasion. But once the border was arranged to his liking, Maximinius packed up the bulk of his men and marched on Italy. The few days delay had done nothing to dampen his temper, and it was a furious, vengeance-driven emperor who led his troops through the Alps and into the Po Valley. He was going to cut a swath right through Italy on the way to Rome, and when he got to Rome, he was going to kill every senator he could find. The insolence of that pathetic body was just too much to bear. It was time to exterminate the whole disgusting lot of them. But Maximinius wouldn't make it to Rome. He wouldn't even make it out of the Po Valley. Not alive, anyway.

Next time, Maximinius and his troops will indeed come pouring out of the Alps. But rather than cutting a swath through Italy, they would be stopped short by the stern resistance of the citizens of Aquileia. Maximinius had always assumed that the Italians were a weak lot, made soft by years of peace. But he was about to discover that the old Roman obstinacy was alive and well. Rather than simply roll over, Aquileia chose to fight, something Maximinius had not really anticipated. Unable to break the siege, the frustrated anger of the Thracian emperor would eventually be released on his own men, and when they had taken enough of his lashings, they would return the favor by taking their own frustrated anger out on him. The siege of Aquileia would finally end, not with the city sacked, but with Maximinius's head posted on a spike in front of the city gates. I say next time, because I'm taking Labor Day weekend off, but we'll be back in two weeks for the death of Maximinius, the short and turbulent reign of the senatorial co-emperors, and the surprising emergence of young Gordian III as the sole emperor of the Roman Empire, a possibility I'm sure was not really on his radar when the year began.

I'll close this week with a brief note on the History of Rome Tour, which is fast becoming the History of Rome Tours. The response has been fantastic to say the least, and we are working double time to schedule additional trips so that everyone who wants to go can go. I don't have any firm details just yet on when those might be, but hopefully we'll have it all in place here pretty quick. And of course, beyond this initial itinerary we've created, we've been kicking around some other ideas for future tours that I think you're going to find very, very cool. So even if this first go-around wasn't going to work for you, I want you to know that maybe we'll have something soon for you, too.