It may be wise to consider the likely tensions at court. It would be very surprising if there were not factions on the Palatine Hill jockeying for position. Livia and her influential circle would support her two sons, now reduced to one; and Julia would wish to assure herself that Gaius’ and Lucius’ progress to supreme power was unimpeded. These groupings would surely have had action plans ready for immediate implementation in the event of Augustus’ incapacity or death.
It may be that Tiberius’ retirement was an acknowledgment of defeat in a sophisticated (and now irrecoverable) game. The Julian faction was in the ascendant and he could even have begun to worry about his personal safety in the long run (a good reason for retaining his powers). Alternatively, Tiberius may have felt that his services could not be dispensed with, and that a temporary absence would strengthen his position. He would have to be recalled. Did he even hope to arm-twist the princeps to rescind, tone down, or delay his plans to promote Gaius?
Augustus, of course, resisted any pressure to change his dynastic strategy, but he was too aware of the uncertainties of life to remove Tiberius from the board entirely. Circumstances could possibly arise in the future, unwelcome though they were to contemplate, that would call for his return to power.
Augustus did his best to persuade Tiberius to change his mind. So did Livia, but to no avail. Family quarrels often descend into childishness, and Tiberius went on hunger strike for four days to prove that he was serious. The princeps admitted defeat and announced the retirement to the Senate. He characterized it bitterly as an act of betrayal. It was a very long time since someone had said no to him.
Tiberius left Rome at once, hurrying down to the port of Ostia without saying a word to the troop of friends who had come to offer their farewells, and kissing only very few of them before he boarded his ship and sailed off. He traveled as a private citizen, accompanied by one little-known senator and a few equites. As he was coasting past Campania on his journey south, he received news that Augustus was ill. He cast anchor for a time, but soon guessed that the princeps was applying moral blackmail. He did not want to appear to be awaiting an opportunity to seize power. So he resumed his journey.
He decided he would live on Rhodes in the eastern Mediterranean, where he had had an enjoyable holiday many years before on his return from Armenia. The diamond-shaped island is nearly fifty miles long and in those days had between sixty thousand and eighty thousand inhabitants. Until the arrival of Rome, it had been a leading sea power; it was still a center of Greek culture. The land was fertile and figs, pears, pistachios, and olives were grown, as they are today.
Tiberius settled in a modest town house and acquired a villa not far away in the countryside. He behaved unassumingly, keeping his lictors (the guards who symbolized his authority) and his runners out of sight. He often strolled around the Gymnasium, where, Suetonius reports, “he greeted and chatted with simple Greeks as if they were his equals.”
Tiberius wanted Augustus, and perhaps especially supporters of Gaius and Lucius, the “Julian faction,” to believe that he was politically inactive, as indeed he was. It was awkward that distinguished Romans, traveling to eastern provinces on one commission or another, made a point of stopping off at Rhodes to pay their respects, but he could hardly refuse to receive them. Many governors had friendly connections with the self-made exile and, according to Velleius Paterculus, a military officer who served under Tiberius, lowered their fasces to him in acknowledgment that “his retirement was more worthy of respect than their official positions.”
Nobody quite believed that the career of Tiberius was over.
Little is known of public affairs during the next few years. A regular system of suffect or replacement consuls, who took over from the original officeholders in mid-term, was reintroduced. The princeps reformed the procedures by which a provincial governor could be arraigned for extortion, and in 4 and 3 B.C. further settlements of military veterans were founded.
On the domestic front, a new generation was beginning to emerge. The dead Drusus had had several children by his much-loved wife, Antonia, three of whom survived. The eldest, Germanicus, was born in 15 B.C. and grew up into a courageous and good-natured boy. He was handsome, although his legs were somewhat spindly, a fault he tried to remedy by constant horseback riding after meals. He learned to become an excellent public speaker in Latin and Greek, enjoyed literature, and in adulthood wrote a number of comedies in Greek. Augustus became extremely fond of Germanicus.
Drusus’ other son, Claudius, born in 10 B.C., was a problem. His childhood was marred by frequent illnesses. He was physically weak and he limped (perhaps the result of a polio attack); he developed a stutter and a nervous twitching of the head. His mother, Antonia, loathed him. She called him “a monster, not finished but merely begun by nature.” Accusing anyone of stupidity, she would say: “He’s as big a fool as my son Claudius.” Livia also treated him with contempt and rarely spoke to him.
In fact, Claudius matured into an intelligent and studious youth. As a child, he set his sights on becoming a historian. Encouraged by the greatest historian of the age, Livy, he started work on a history of Rome. It opened with the murder of Julius Caesar, but skipped the civil wars that followed when Livia and Antonia warned him that he would not be allowed to publish an uncensored account of those years.
The third child was a girl, Livilla, whom Augustus regarded, as he did all his female relatives, as little more than dynastic marriage fodder. That no record of her early years survives is a reminder of the low value Romans placed on girls.
Like previous years of crisis, 2 B.C. opened well. The princeps held his thirteenth consulship, this time to mark the entry into the adult world of the fifteen-year-old Lucius, whom he designated consul for A.D. 4.
A popular campaign was launched to confer on him the title pater patriae, “father of his country.” This would be a very great honor, seldom bestowed. It had been last awarded to Julius Caesar after the battle of Munda and before that in 63 B.C. to the orator Marcus Tullius Cicero, when he unmasked Catilina’s conspiracy against the state.
Messalla was an honorable turncoat (by contrast, say, with the egregious Plancus) and continued to refer to Cassius, under whom he had fought, as “my general” even after he became one of the princeps’ closest friends. He joined Mark Antony after the defeat at Philippi, and switched sides one final time, foreseeing the ruin that Antony’s partnership with Cleopatra would bring about. He distinguished himself at Actium.
After that battle, the then Octavian joked: “You have fought for me as well as you did against me at Philippi.”
Messalla cleverly replied: “I have always chosen the best and justest side!”
On February 5, at a meeting of the Senate, this distinguished man addressed his leader: “Caesar Augustus, the Senate agrees with the People of Rome in saluting you as Father of your Country.” It was one of the proudest moments in Augustus’ life, for the honor was clearly more than flattery: it reflected genuine respect.