Editor’s Note: This essay is based on excerpts adapted from Germanicus, Rome’s Unlucky Prince by Alessio Perry.
The Mysterious Death of a Beloved Man
Their friends were waiting anxiously in the antechamber. Their son and baby daughters had been left with the wet nurse in an area of the palace far from that stifling atmosphere. From outside, through wide-open doors and windows, came the murmuring of the crowd, gathered from far and wide, expecting news. Suddenly, the curtains at the threshold parted and a slender figure emerged from the darkness of the chamber beyond. Everything stopped; all fell silent. You could feel the tension rising, as if a swarm of flies had suddenly erupted into the overcrowded room.
Agrippina stepped forward, the autumnal rays hitting her gaunt face and revealing the pain of the past few weeks. For once, Augustus’ granddaughter kept her head low, her gaze fixed on the floor, hidden from view. A solitary tear glimmered on her chiselled cheek, trickling down to a chin of such divine form. A moment later, the whole of Antioch burst out in a cry of grief.
Such could well have been the atmosphere in the capital of the province of Syria on that fateful sixth day before the Ides of October, in the year when the consuls were M. Silanus and L. Norbanus — in modern terms, 10 October 19 CE. All the historical sources that record the event agree on the impact that Germanicus’ death had: not only was the Roman populace affected, but even the barbarians beyond the borders of the empire were saddened by his loss. We could, with reason, define Germanicus’ death as an event of ecumenical consequence; or at least this is what the Roman sources want us to believe.
Very interestingly, some modern authors compare the description of this event to the passing of a much more famous young general, who also died prematurely and in mysterious circumstances: Alexander the Great. Historian Lorenzo Braccesi frames this ‘universal grief’ for Germanicus’ death within the heroic framework of the imitatio Alexandri — the imitation of Alexander. It was indeed customary for successful Roman generals to be compared to Alexander the Great for their heroic deeds and military exploits. Alexander was the ultimate figure every proud general aspired to equal.
The most obvious example of this is Julius Caesar, who surged to fame in just eight years through his glorious conquest of Gaul. But others before him had already boosted their standing by calling attention to comparisons between themselves and the young Macedonian king — men such as Scipio Africanus and Pompey the Great, to name but two. Moreover, many Roman authors themselves indulged in such comparisons in order to raise the profile of their parvenu state against the prestige of the Hellenistic kingdoms.
Germanicus was merely the last in a long list of individuals whose deeds were assimilated with those of the legendary Alexander. Even the premature death of the conqueror of Asia had been received with consternation by his subjects; this is just the first of many comparisons between the two men that we will encounter.
But did Germanicus’ sudden passing spark such profound grief among his contemporaries purely because he was regarded as something of a ‘new Alexander’? It seems this is not the whole story. The historical sources are dotted with praise for Germanicus, a young man cloaked in virtue and other positive qualities that endeared him greatly to the people and made him one of the most beloved figures of his time.
Tacitus describes Germanicus as showing ‘humanity towards allies, mildness towards his enemies’ and speaks of the respect he generated in all who saw and heard him. Suetonius is no less impressed:
It is the general opinion that Germanicus possessed all the highest qualities of body and mind, to a degree never equalled by anyone; handsome in person, of unequalled valour, master of both Greek and Latin eloquence and culture, he attracted the love of men for his peculiar kindness and for a remarkable capacity for winning affection. […] Unassuming at home and abroad, he always entered free and federate towns without lictors. Wherever he came upon the tombs of distinguished men, he always offered sacrifice to their shades. […] Even towards his detractors, whoever they were and whatever their motives, he was mild and lenient.
Cassius Dio’s comment is not dissimilar:
Germanicus, of handsome body and of the highest virtue, also distinguished himself for his education and strength; and although he showed bravery in the face of his enemies, he behaved amiably with his peers. Despite his great power as Caesar, he kept his ambition low, like a common man; he was never cruel to his subjects; he was not jealous of Drusus the Younger, nor did he show reproachful behaviour towards Tiberius. In short, he was one of those few men who never made a mistake and did not allow his fate to overtake him.
After such eulogies, it is clear that there was something more to Germanicus than merely being a ‘new Alexander’, at least according to our literary sources. In reading the ancient authors, it becomes evident that improvements had been made to the Alexandrian model: to the virtues usually associated with Alexander, such as bravery and cunning, were added qualities peculiar to Germanicus alone — mercy, moderation, and tolerance, to name just three. We are thus in the presence of a new model without the flaws of the original: a wholly ‘positive new Alexander’.
We can now more easily understand why the shock that engulfed the empire upon hearing of such a man’s death was so great. In addition to all the above, the young man had been destined to don the imperial purple after the passing of his uncle Tiberius, the current emperor. Germanicus had indeed been bestowed with the tribunicia potestas, one of the two core powers that characterised a Roman emperor.
When the Senate — with the agreement of Tiberius — conferred this power on Germanicus along with the imperium proconsulare in 18 CE, just before his departure for the eastern provinces, it was merely acting upon the late Augustus’ will. In 4 CE, when Augustus formally adopted Tiberius as his son and heir, he simultaneously directed him to adopt Germanicus, even though Tiberius already had a biological son, Drusus the Younger. In this way, Augustus was asserting Germanicus’ right to succeed his uncle when the time came.
As it happened, however, Drusus’ presence was never a problem for Germanicus, nor vice versa; the two brothers got along perfectly well. Before travelling east, Germanicus visited Drusus in Illyricum, a region that included many modern Balkan states. It was Drusus alone who, along with the future emperor Claudius — Germanicus’ biological brother — went to meet and escort the ashes of the young general on their journey back to Rome. It was also Drusus who took care of and protected Germanicus’ sons after his passing.
Thus, the hypothetical issue of a struggle for power between the two young men never materialised, and after a few years Drusus followed his brother to the grave, in 23 CE.
We shall now focus on Germanicus’ death — undoubtedly a mysterious one and the object of speculation ever since, fascinating historians and the curious alike because of the aura of ambiguity surrounding it. At the time, some believed it to have been caused by natural illness, but many more suspected murder. Germanicus himself apparently believed that he had been poisoned.
Some sources report that Germanicus’ body showed evident signs of poisoning: bruising all over, foaming at the mouth, and an intact heart after the body had been burnt — it was believed that a heart filled with poison could not burn. Who could blame people for believing that something was amiss? Moreover, the coincidences and contrasts in behaviour among members of the imperial family were so striking that it was difficult to believe a simple disease had carried off one of the greatest and most beloved men Rome had ever known — the new Alexander.
The actions of Piso, governor of Syria, and his wife Plancina upon hearing of Germanicus’ illness and subsequent death were far from orthodox. Meanwhile, what the emperor Tiberius and his mother Livia did — or rather, did not do — at the time of the funeral rites in Rome was little short of blasphemous. There were even rumours that Tiberius himself had commissioned Piso to dispose of his nephew. But, as we shall see, the facts shed a different light on matters depending on how we choose to interpret them.
Thus far, I have deliberately left aside Tacitus’ account of events — usually considered our most authoritative source — since he himself confessed, with some regret, to being highly sceptical about what had really happened. His narrative differs from those of Suetonius and Cassius Dio, who probably relied on the same source for this episode. Tacitus states that the body ‘was exposed in the Forum of Antioch, the place appointed for the cremation; but whether it exhibited signs of poisoning or not is uncertain’. This passage sounds very different from the certainty with which Cassius Dio confirms the event.
In an earlier section, Tacitus notes that Germanicus himself was convinced he had been poisoned by Piso. It is worth quoting the passage in full:
He then went down to Seleucia to await the outcome of the illness, which had returned and was aggravated by Germanicus’ conviction that he had been poisoned by Piso. Remains of disinterred human bodies had been found beneath the floor and in the walls of the house, together with spells and magical formulae; leaden tablets inscribed with the name of Germanicus; charred and blood-stained human ashes, and other baleful substances by which people believe souls may be devoted to the gods below. Piso was also accused of sending messengers to spy out unfavourable symptoms in the case.
This roused the fears, no less than the indignation, of Germanicus. If his threshold were to be beset, if he were to draw his last breath under the eyes of his enemies, what would become of his unhappy wife and infant children? Poisoning, it would seem, was too slow a process; Piso was eager to gain sole command of the province and the legions. But Germanicus had not yet sunk so low, nor would the murderer reap the reward of his crime. He therefore wrote a letter renouncing Piso’s friendship; many add that he ordered him to leave the province.
For a moment Germanicus rallied and hoped to recover; but his strength again failed, and as his end drew near, he addressed the friends standing beside him: ‘If I were paying my debt to Nature, I might even then have a grievance against the gods for snatching me away so young and before my time, from my parents, my children, and my country. But now that my days have been cut short by the guilty hands of Piso and Plancina, I leave my final prayers with you. Tell my father and my brother what cruel wrongs I have endured, by what artifices I have been beset, and how I have ended a miserable life by a most unhappy death.’
According to this account, Germanicus clearly believed that he had been poisoned by Piso and his wife Plancina. This declaration finds confirmation in a bronze inscription containing the Senate’s decisions concerning Piso — a remarkable document preserved in a copy incised on a bronze slab found in Spain.
We will encounter Piso again in Chapter 3 and examine what may have led Germanicus to believe such a thing. We will also attempt to understand how the dying words of the young man could have been recorded and transmitted — who could have been present to know exactly what Germanicus said? Certainly not Tacitus himself, who lived roughly a century after the events. Tacitus’ source, then? But who was this source?
For now, it is worth reiterating that even among Germanicus’ contemporaries, versions of events differed depending on whether ‘men were inclined towards Germanicus through compassion and preconceived suspicion, or towards Piso through friendship’.
This final sentence in Tacitus’ work confirms that two opposing traditions were incorporated into the Annals during its composition: one ‘pro-Germanicus’ and one ‘pro-Piso’. Both versions were embellished by the respective circles of friends of these two men, with aims that extended far beyond uncovering the truth of Germanicus’ death.
The factio Germaniciana embraced a vision of the principate that had earlier been adopted by Caesar, Mark Antony, Julia (daughter of Augustus), and her entourage. They sought to transform Rome into an absolute monarchy modelled on the Hellenistic kingdoms — Egypt foremost among them — with its millennia-old tradition of divine rulership. This would have been a monarchy short of outright divinity, ill suited to the conservatism of aristocratic Rome.
Such traditionalism, by contrast, was embedded in the moderate policy of Augustus, who had found a compromise by styling his de facto monarchy a ‘principality’: he was princeps rather than king, the ‘first’ among Rome’s aristocrats. Meanwhile, respect for the mos maiorum — the ‘way of the ancestors’, the unwritten social code of the Romans — and for the old republican institutions characterised the most conservative wing of the Senate, to which Piso’s circle belonged.
Some modern authors have embraced Tacitus’ scepticism, recognising that a definitive solution to the mystery may never be reached. Among them, the prevailing view is that Germanicus may indeed have died of natural causes, and that it was his wife Agrippina, together with their circle of friends, who constructed the poisoning narrative in order to implicate — ultimately and indirectly — Tiberius. After all, it was he who had allegedly given Piso ‘secret instructions’ before the governor joined Germanicus in Syria.
As I will argue in later chapters, this line of interpretation appears the more convincing: that Germanicus died of natural causes, but that those close to him exploited the unexpected situation by fabricating a ‘plot’ for their own political advantage.
But what led so many contemporaries to believe that Germanicus had in fact been poisoned, and that this had occurred at the behest of no one less than his uncle, the emperor himself? And what would Tiberius have stood to gain by eliminating his stepson, blood relative, and heir presumptive? We will address the second question in the next chapter. To answer the first, we must examine Germanicus’ funeral and the posthumous honours bestowed upon him by the Senate and the emperor.
1.2 Funerals and Honours
Germanicus’ body was cremated at Antioch, and his ashes were gathered into an urn that his widow carried back to Rome, holding it tightly against her breast. Tacitus’ description of Agrippina’s arrival at Brundisium, modern Brindisi in southern Italy, is particularly evocative. At the sight of her sorrowful state — the urn pressed to her bosom, uncertain of vengeance, full of fears for herself, and exposed on so many fronts to the blows of fortune because of her ill-starred fertility — all hearts, he writes, were filled with compassion.
The highest honours were paid to Germanicus by towns along the route to Rome. At Terracina, in southern Latium, the funeral procession was met by Drusus the Younger, Claudius (the future emperor), Germanicus’ two eldest sons — Nero and Drusus Caesar, who had remained in Rome while their parents were abroad — the Senate, the two consuls for the new year (20 CE), and a large part of the populace. From Terracina, this human river continued on its way, flowing inexorably toward the capital.
