In ancient Rome, how you shuffled off your mortal coil mattered almost as much as how you bore it through life. Just as you might live a virtuous life, so too could you die a virtuous death — and few examples of admirable, awful, shameful and indeed painful deaths have come down in as much detail as those of the Roman emperors.
What Was a ‘Good Death’ in Ancient Rome?
Peacefully passing away at home surrounded by family, as in the case of the emperor Augustus, was the most desirable death a Roman could have wanted. Or at least this most faithfully fits the meaning of the Greek term εὐθανασία (euthanasia), which literally translates as good death (eu: good; thanatos: death).
Because Roman culture was fundamentally militaristic, writers and poets also glorified dying bravely in battle. Most interestingly, before Christian theologians preached suicide as a sin, taking one’s own life for the preservation of honour (and the retention of property) could also be a noble way to go. And while the most famous ancient example of suicide comes not from Rome but from Greece, with the death of Socrates, the Romans did their fair share of imitation.
There were, of course, fundamentally bad deaths. Being assassinated like Caligula or committing suicide on the run like Nero were particularly Roman emperor deaths, as was being slowly and unknowingly poisoned by someone in your own immediate family—particularly by a wife, as in the case of the emperor Claudius.
“The way we die is sadder than death itself.”
Martial, Epigrams, XI, 91.
The most dishonourable death of all was one that plunged the family—or worse, the Empire—into chaos or civil war. It shouldn’t surprise us that many of the aforementioned examples are taken right from the scandalous lives of the Twelve Caesars.
All the juicy details of Roman emperor deaths are remarkably well-documented in the biographies of Suetonius. If you haven’t read him, and you’re interested in early Roman emperors, you really must.
Suetonius’s biographies tell us a great deal about the nature of autocracy, the trappings of power, and the difficulties of navigating (and surviving) Rome’s imperial court. And the manner in which his emperors meet their end always reflects something about the way they lived their lives.
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Julius Caesar
If people have one date from Roman history saved to mind, it’s March 15, 44 BC. Otherwise known as the Ides of March, this was the day that the self-declared dictator Julius Caesar was murdered, set upon by a group of senators in the newly constructed meeting house of the Theatre of Pompey, and stabbed 23 times in the name of preserving the Roman Republic.
Chief among the conspiracy’s leaders was Marcus Junius Brutus, whose great ancestor had driven out the last of Rome’s kings, Tarquinius Superbus, after his rape of a young noblewoman named Lucretia. Brutus had gone on to found the Roman Republic in 509 BC, serving as one of its first consuls. Now his ancestor was being called upon to save Rome from a new tyrant.
In the early hours of the Ides of March, Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, woke from a nightmare in which she had held her husband’s corpse in her arms. She begged Caesar not to attend his meetings, and the dictator reluctantly agreed. But when his senatorial colleagues, and eventual assassins, mocked him for following the whims of a woman, Caesar changed his mind.
Or as I put it back in 2020 when we were put under lockdown in Italy:
Caesar’s Assassination: Truth vs. Myth
Caesar was assassinated shortly after entering the new senate house, recently annexed to the enormous Theatre of Pompey—the first permanent stone theatre in Rome’s history and one of the lost wonders of Hidden Rome.
Suetonius tells us that a senator named Lucius Tillius Cimber approached Caesar, petitioning for his brother’s recall from exile, but Caesar brushed him away. Cimber then made a grab for his toga, pulling it down and causing Caesar to cry out that he was being attacked. Another senator then lunged at Caesar’s neck with his dagger, and although Caesar caught the dagger in his hand, this only delayed the inevitable.
Within seconds, dozens of senators were hacking away at the dictator with daggers drawn from beneath their togas. The most famous part of Caesar’s death is the dying dictator looking upon his former friend and uttering the immortal words, Et tu Brute? But this is entirely fictitious. This line was Elizabethan in origin, written by William Shakespeare for his eponymous play Julius Caesar.
According to ancient sources, Caesar either said nothing or, as some suggested, uttered the Greek phrase καὶ σὺ τἐκνον which sounds a bit like “kai say teknon” and means “you too, young man?” Although most aristocratic Romans were bilingual, it’s hard to believe that a man who’d been stabbed two dozen times out of nowhere would have produced a Greek quip as he lay bleeding to death.
“καὶ σὺ τἐκνον” — “You too, young man?”
We might prefer this dramatic version, but the others are more probably accurate. In all likelihood, the dying dictator pulled his tunic up over his face to preserve what dignity remained before bleeding out alone beneath the statue of his former rival.
Augustus
Of all Roman emperor deaths, Augustus’ is both the most simple and the most scripted. As the emperor lay on his deathbed in Nola, near Naples, on 19 August 14 AD, he asked those surrounding him whether he had played his role well in the comedy of life. He then recited the final lines from a Greek comedy by the playwright Menander:
“Since the play has been so good, clap your hands, and all of you dismiss us with applause.”
Dismissing the retinue around his bed, the 75-year-old emperor kissed his wife Livia, telling her to live “mindful of their marriage”. He then bid her too farewell before the curtain came down on his long and eventful life.
Augustus’s death has been exactly as he’d hoped it would be—easy. Apparently, whenever he heard of someone who had died a good death (euthanasia), he would wish the same for himself and his loved ones.
Augustus’ death was also nothing if not theatrical. Which was appropriate, given that his entire life had been nothing but an act.
The Theatrical Death of a Lifelong Actor
The great British historian Ronald Syme once described Augustus as a chameleon, adept at adapting his appearance but never able to change his substance. It’s a powerful analogy, bringing to attention an often-overlooked aspect of Augustus’s character.
Augustus was essentially a warlord who had achieved power through targeted murder, merciless brutality, and civil war. He held onto power by ruthlessly putting down his enemies and creating a well-oiled propaganda machine that would have put the state of George Orwell’s 1984 to shame. The image we have of the pious, peaceful, avuncular emperor is more a product of this effective propaganda than an accurate reflection of history.
Augustus’s whole life had been an act of what the Romans called dissimulatio, keeping up appearances, concealing one’s real thoughts and emotions behind a carefully positioned public mask. Augustus wore this persona right up until his last days, sitting through public performances and fulfilling his public duties while his body was wrecked by diarrhoea and a digestive infection.
On his deathbed, he requested a mirror so he could rearrange his hair, and repeatedly asked if his demise was causing any trouble on the streets. Augustus’s entire life had been about projecting his image as a fundamentally good, moral, family-centred emperor. We should not be surprised that death was no different.
Tiberius
Despite the alcoholic and sexual excesses of his twilight years, Tiberius reached the oldest age of any Roman emperor. He could have made it beyond his 78th year too, had it not been for the treacherous intentions of his nephew Caligula and the murderous intervention of his praetorian guard, Macro. Or at least that’s how one version of the story goes.
How Did Tiberius Die?
Tiberius passed away on his way back from Rome. He had not been to the city itself. Despite setting off to visit on two separate occasions, Tiberius never found the courage to enter Rome’s city walls, preferring instead to rule remotely from his palace, the Villa of Jupiter, on the island of Capri. Here he had set himself up in self-imposed exile early on in his reign, preferring its isolation to the prying eyes of the capital and its court.
Our sources tell us that Tiberius was struck by illness first in Astura and then in Circeii, a coastal town halfway between Rome and Naples. Like Augustus before him, Tiberius was determined not to show his illness; doing so might encourage others to help him on his way. And so he stoically attended some gladiatorial games put on in Circeii’s army camp, even spearing a boar by throwing a javelin from his imperial box.
Tiberius continued his journey to Misenum, near Naples, still sticking to his daily routine of dining, drinking, and partying until late every night. Partly to hide his worsening condition, partly because he couldn’t resist.
Eventually, he came to a stop at the villa of his friend Lucullus. Detained by bad weather and the sharp deterioration of his health, he died on March 16, 37 AD. Some thought Caligula had long been administering him poison; others said Macro had smothered him with a pillow on Caligula’s orders. Regardless, the Roman world reacted to the death of their emperor, not in the way he would have liked, but in the way he probably expected.
The Most Publically Celebrated Imperial Death
There were celebrations in the streets after the death of Tiberius. Some people ran around shouting, “Into the Tiber with Tiberius!” Others prayed that Tiberius would find no rest in the underworld. It was even suggested that his body should be pierced with hooks and dragged down the Gemonian Stairs.
This would have been apt. The Gemonian Stairs were a customary place of execution where condemned criminals were strangled and then thrown down the steps. Many had died this way during Tiberius’ purges (maiestas trials, as they were known), including his former confidant, Sejanus. But Tiberius’ body was spared this mistreatment.
Caligula
Caligula was not the first emperor to rule through violence, but he was the first to reap what he sowed. Whichever version of his assassination you believe, the end result is the same. On January 24, 41 AD, amid the Palatine Games, Caligula was butchered in a passage underneath the Palatine Theatre. Murdered by the men who had sworn to protect him.
Caligula’s Assassination: the Most Brutal Roman Emperor Deaths
Suetonius reports two versions of Caligula’s death. In the first, the Praetorian Prefect Cassius Chaerea snuck up behind him while he was talking to a band of Asian boys about to perform onstage and cried out, “take this!”—words traditionally accompanying a sacrifice—before slashing Caligula’s neck while the people’s tribune, Cornelius Sabinus, ran him through from the front.
The second version involves the same cast, but the performance is far more theatrical.
Here Sabinus asked Caligula for the military password to which the emperor responded, “Jupiter!” Chaerea then approached from behind and cried out, “let it be so” (Jupiter being the god of sudden death), swinging his sword and splitting open the emperor’s jaw. Writhing around on the floor, Caligula cried out that he was still alive (Suetonius brushes over how he managed this with his jaw hanging off) but was soon stabbed to death by other conspirators.
The conspirators cut Caligula’s genitals off, and to put an end to his Julian bloodline they butchered his wife and infant daughter. His wife, Milonia Caesonia, was hacked to death beside him while his daughter was taken out of sight and dashed against a wall.
Later writers would try to justify the murder of his one-year-old daughter Julia Drusilla by saying she’d inherited her father’s savagery, and would bite and scratch at the faces of those who played with her. However, it’s not hard to see through this as a pathetic attempt to justify the barbaric murder of an infant.
Seeing through the distortion of our sources is fundamental in understanding Caligula’s life and death. There’s no question Caligula was unhinged—being raised in an environment in which your father is poisoned, your mother is starved to death, and you wake up every morning not knowing if your uncle is going to murder you might do that to you.
But the image of the deranged sociopath, who believes himself a god, puts to death anyone and everyone creates a character that belongs more to the theatre than to history.
Claudius
How Did Claudius Die?
All our ancient writers agree that Claudius was poisoned. They disagree only over the mode of its delivery. Either Claudius ingested poisoned mushrooms served to him at dinner or he induced his fatal dose through a feather dipped in venom, which he would dip down his throat to vomit during banquets.
Those suspected of assassinating him was (his wife and niece), and Nero, her son, employing the help of the notorious imperial poisoner Locusta. If we are to believe our sources, the despicable duo weren’t particularly subtle. Nero would later make jokes about mushrooms being the “food of the gods”, as eating and dying from them resulted in Claudius being deified.
In reality, Claudius’s death may not have been as suspicious as people think. Ancient writers were keen to implicate others, especially women, in non-violent Roman emperor deaths. We’ve seen it with Augustus, whose wife, Livia, faced accusations of secretly administering the emperor poison, and we’ve seen it with Tiberius, with rumours that Caligula had him either poisoned or smothered.
True, Claudius had a bad track history with his wives. His first wife as emperor, Messalina, was executed for conspiring against him and marrying another senator while he was away on business in Ostia, and true this made Agrippina an easy target.
But while Claudius’s death may have been relatively unremarkable, a surviving text that circulated Nero’s court shortly afterwards is anything but.
Known as the Apocolocyntosis (try saying that a couple of drinks down), the text was supposedly written by Seneca the Younger, the great stoic philosopher and tutor to the emperor Nero. It’s essentially a satirical poem about Claudius’s death, his ascent to heaven, and his arrival amongst the Capitoline Gods (by Claudius’s time it was becoming common practice for emperors to be declared gods after their death—a process known as apotheosis).
Apocolocyntosis is a pun on this word, translating to something like the “pumpkinification” of Claudius, or “How Claudius became a pumpkin”. (I said it was a pun; I didn’t say it was funny).
The Apocolocyntosis describes how, on October 13 54 AD, the Fates decided to mercifully intervene and give the 64-year-old emperor terminal respite from his torturous existence. Claudius was watching a troupe of comedians when he interrupted the performance with a loud fart.
He utters his final words, “Oh dear, I appear to have shit myself”, before ascending to heaven. Rather than receiving a warm welcome, however, he’s tried before a court of gods—headed by Augustus—and condemned to be Calilgula’s slave in perpetuity.
Nero
As an emperor and as a human, Nero was absolutely awful. His show-reel of worst moments features assassinating his mother, forcing his first wife to commit suicide, and kicking his second wife to death when she told him off for spending too much time at the games.
As emperor, he abjectly failed his principal job of holding the Roman Empire together. For in his final days, he mismanaged events so spectacularly that what started out as an insignificant revolt led to him committing suicide without an heir, plunging Rome into yet another civil war.
The beginning of the end came with the rebellion of the Roman governor of Gallia Lugdunensis (modern-day Lyon in Northern France) in March 68 AD. Sick of Nero’s inept leadership and seeking to win over support for his cause, he nominated the Spanish governor Galba as the new emperor. Despite Galba being declared an enemy of the state, it wasn’t long before the armies abandoned Nero and swore allegiance to him.
The 30-year-old emperor toyed with several solutions, including throwing himself upon the mercy of Galba or Rome’s enemies, the Parthians, or mounting the rostra (a speaking platform in the forum) dressed in black and publicly apologizing for all past offences.
In the end, Nero decided to do nothing and went to bed.
Waking up in the middle of the night, he found everyone had abandoned him, even his personal gladiator who he was searching for so he might end help the emperor end his wretched life.
How Did Nero Die?
Fleeing the imperial palace on horseback, Nero made his way towards the villa of his freedman (ex-slave), Phaon, on the fourth milestone between the Via Nomentana and the Via Salaria.
A passing soldier recognised and saluted him, scaring the emperor into venturing off-road. He made his way along the back of Phaon’s villa, scratching his face on the branches and brambles, before crawling his way inside to await news from the outside world. A few hours later it arrived, but it wasn’t what Nero wanted to hear. The Senate had declared him an enemy of the state.
Nero steeled himself for suicide, but could not bring himself to do it, asking in vain for someone to show him how it’s done. Eventually, mistaking the sound of horses outside for someone sent to arrest him, he drove a dagger into his throat.
The Most Misinterpreted of Roman Emperor Deaths
Moments before his death, Nero is credited with saying “Qualis artifex pereo! — What an artist dies with me!” While taken to mean “what an artist dies with me!”, the truth is that this phrase has been misunderstood for centuries.
Artifex translates less as “artist” and more as “artisan” in the modern sense of the word: a builder and a creator.
True, Nero did oversee some extraordinary construction projects in the wake of the Great Fire of Rome. Not least the Domus Aurea (Golden Palace), which he built near the present site of the Colosseum and parts of which you can still visit today.
But Nero was never any good as an artist; Suetonius tells us he had a husky singing voice—desirable among the 90s Seattle grunge scene, less so in first-century Rome.
Galba
Galba may have been the first to fill the power vacuum left by Nero’s suicide, but he was not the last. His violent, tight-fisted, and phenomenally unpopular reign lasted just 7 months from when he seized the throne in June 68 to his assassination on January 15, 69.
Things started to go downhill for Galba when the Praetorian Guard proclaimed another general, Otho, emperor in their camp. Deciding they needed to lure Galba away from safety, they sent soldiers to him bearing the news that Otho had been killed and requesting the emperor’s presence at their camp. He set off through the Forum, but, abandoned by his attendants, was cut down by cavalry at the side of the street.
There are varying accounts of his final moments. One has the shocked emperor cry out: “Soldiers, what are you doing? I am yours and you are mine!” before being cut down. Another has him trying to bribe his way out, offering his assassins a donative if they spare his life.
Most ancient accounts, however, agree that Galba faced his death bravely, bearing his throat to his assassins and urging them to strike if they believed that the right thing to do.
The only soldiers to come to Galba’s rescue were a detachment of German soldiers. Fiercely loyal by nature—as they had been to Caligula moments after his assassination—the emperor’s German Guard had been treated particularly well by the emperor whenever one of its men was sick or wounded.
Orienteering wasn’t their strong point, however, and having got hopelessly lost trying to find him in the Forum they arrived too late to help.
Galba’s Posthumous Treatment Sends Shivers Down the Spine
Galba’s corpse was subjected to terrible humiliation. A passing soldier, coming back from collecting his corn distribution, set down his load, pulled out gladius and decapitated Galba. He wanted to take the head to Otho but had difficulty gripping it, unable to hold onto the hair because Galba was completely bald. So after hiding it inside his tunic on his way through the Forum, he pulled it out, stuck his thumb in its mouth, and carried it to Otho.
Grim.
The new emperor Otho impaled the head on a lance and paraded it around the Praetorian Camp. Encouraging jeers and insults from his men, Otho was said to have shouted: “What a pretty boy you are Galba, better make the most of your youthful good looks!” Aged 73, Galba was neither, reputed to have had a hooked nose, crippling arthritis, and a sprawling fleshy growth protruding from his right flank.
Otho
While Otho’s death might not be the most eventful of the first twelve emperors, it’s by far the most redemptive.
The ancients gave Otho’s life a terrible write-up. Suetonius describes him as a wild, extravagant, and sexually debauched young man: a favourite of the emperor Nero with whom he was believed to have been more than just friends. Tacitus thought him no different from Nero or Vitellius, and while we haven’t met Vitellius yet, suffice to say this was no good thing.
But both writers showed curiously reverential respect for the way in Otho he met his end. Tacitus calls his suicide egregio, a word that has given us “egregious”. These days egregious describe something really bad, but in antiquity it meant the opposite. It might seem strange to us today that suicide could be viewed in lofty, praise-worthy terms. But the world of the Twelve Caesars was a world yet to be coloured by Christian moralisers who preached suicide as sin.
Otho’s reign was short, and not particularly sweet. Declared emperor in January 68, by the middle of April he was dead, aged 38. His death came after he was defeated in battle by the legionary commander of the lower-Rhine and rival claimant to the throne, Aulus Vitellius. What’s remarkable is that Otho’s defeat was by no means crushing; he still had deep numbers of reserves. But to spare the empire more years of detestable civil war, and further Roman blood being spilt, Otho chose to die.
Cassius Dio, a later writer, credits him with saying,
“It is far more just to perish one for all than many for one”,
And he also tells us that this message went down so well with his soldiers that many killed themselves along with him. There’s bound to be some exaggeration, but all sources agree that upon retiring to his quarters he wrote letters to his loved ones, distributed money among his slaves, and left his door open all night, admitting anyone who wanted to see him. As soon as he woke the next morning, he pulled out a dagger from under his pillow and stabbed himself through the heart.
The Most Redemptive of Roman Emperor Deaths
Otho’s suicide earned him the admiration of later Romans. Those who had hated him in life sang his praises in death. So much so, in fact, that a patriotic tradition sprang up around him saying that he hadn’t removed Galba because he wanted to become emperor, but he had done it so that he might restore the Republic.
Vitellius
Vitellius suffered the worst of the early Roman emperor deaths.
In terms of execution, location, and people involved, Vitellius’s death borrowed elements from several other imperial deaths. That it did is appropriate, if not slightly ironic, especially considering the extent to which Vitellius ingratiated himself with—and therefore owed his eventual position to—several former emperors.
A Friend to All Emperors
Vitellius’ political career brought him into contact with several emperors. During his time on Capri, Vitellius was alleged to have been one of Tiberius’ favourites, known affectionately, and for reasons we really don’t need to go into, as one of his “tight-bums”.
Vitellius befriended Caligula through their shared love of chariot racing and entered Claudius’ intimate circle through their shared love of gambling. Understanding that music was the way to Nero’s heart, he would pre-arrange encores during the emperor’s musical performances, leading Nero to think he was more popular—and better—than he actually was.
Vitellius met his end on December 22 69 AD, when the advance guard of Vespasian, commander of the legions in Judaea and the last of this civil war’s emperors, entered Rome. The emperor went into hiding (Tacitus tells us in a doorkeeper’s lodge) but was soon dragged out by the rampaging troops. At first, they didn’t recognize him. But once they learned the identity of their imperial captive they decided to put him to death.
Vitellius was stripped half-naked, a noose thrown around his neck and his hands bound behind his back and dragged the length of the Via Sacra into the Roman Forum. En route, the plebeians spat at him, threw excrement, and insulted him over his obesity and grotesque appearance.
The journey took painfully long; Vitellius limped the whole way as one of his legs was mangled from when Caligula had once struck him with a chariot. After at least 30 minutes, judging from the length of the Via Sacra, he arrived at the Germanian steps.
There he was executed, made to bleed to death from dozens of tiny incisions. His body was pierced with hooks and dragged to the Tiber, the river becoming his ultimate resting place.
As mentioned, his death shared characteristics with other Roman emperor deaths. Like Nero, he tried to flee and was given dramatic last words, “But I was once your emperor!”
As with Tiberius, people wanted his body consigned to the Tiber—though with Vitellius they actually succeeded. As with Caligula and Galba, he was murdered in public – all suggesting that terrible emperors met terrible ends.
Vespasian
The way Vespasian met his death is very much in keeping with his character. Histories and biographies show Vespasian as a light-hearted, witty man. And because, as we’ve seen so far, Roman emperor deaths tend to echo the way they lived their lives, it should come as no surprise that humour features large in the death of Vespasian.
How Did Vespasian Die?
While away in Campania in July of 79 AD, Vespasian suffered a minor illness. We don’t know the details, but it was enough to convince him to head back to Rome and start putting his affairs in order.
Famously, upon first feeling ill he was said to have joked, Vae, puto deus fio, “Alas, I think I am becoming a god” making reference to the now-common convention of deifying dead emperors.
And lo and behold, the Senate did declare him a god.
However, his health deteriorated rapidly, not helped by the fact that he was used to taking long, cold baths—just as any good Roman should—and therefore had an underlying intestinal disorder. He stopped off at Rieti, a city not far from Rome in the region of Lazio, but soon found himself confined to his bed.
From there he continued to receive embassies and deal with official business, but a sudden bout of diarrhoea on June 23 convinced him this was the end. Exclaiming that an emperor should die on his feet, he struggled out of bed, dying in the arms of those attending him.
So goes the official version. But scratch below the surface and you find something sinister about the reign of Vespasian.
Like Augustus, he was the first emperor of a new dynasty, a man who had only come to power by merit of being the only man left standing after a costly civil war. War in all its forms must inevitably be followed by peacetime. But in the aftermath of civil wars, rarely are such peacetimes jovial.
I tend to imagine Vespasian’s reign as one characterized by intense propaganda, severe censorship, and the rooting out and eradication of any past (or potential future) enemies. The fact that hardly a bad word to say about Vespasian exists in the surviving literature is enough to ring alarm bells among historians, but if you look closely you’ll find senatorial and philosophical opponents who were put to death on trivial grounds.
Titus
Titus’ demise marks a departure from other deaths of Roman emperors. His end was not violent or theatrical or mysterious. It was simply sad. Suetonius tells us that Titus exuded potential as an emperor, and the tragedy was that he never got to fulfil it.
How Did Titus Die?
Titus’ death, on September 13, 81 AD at the age of 41, was, in the words of Suetonius, “more humanity’s loss than his own”.
As our Roman sources are short on details, there’s little to say about Titus’s death. Returning from the games to his Sabine estate, he was struck by a fever and forced to stop at Rieti. Inauspiciously, he took board at the same villa where his father, Vespasian, had passed away just two years prior.
The only intriguing question concerns his final words. While being carried in a litter to his family villa in Rieti, he apparently drew back the curtains and lamented about his life being cruelly taken from him when he didn’t deserve to lose it—okay, so maybe it was quite theatrical. He then uttered that he had just one regret in life. However, presumably to the annoyance of those around him, he refused to disclose what this was, though some speculated a secret affair with his brother’s wife, Domitia.
An Altogether Different Appears in the Babylonian Talmud.
According to this Jewish text, the cause of Titus’s death was an insect that flew up his nose and picked away at his brain for seven years. That the Jewish author should have suggested this is hardly surprising: no love was lost between Titus and the Jews, given that the emperor had captured Jerusalem and sacked their Temple in 70 AD, killing as many as one million people. What’s surprising is that this legend was lazily copied from another regarding the biblical King Nimrod.
We’re told that the Roman public mourned as if they had lost a member of their own family, clearly an exaggeration. Moreover, Suetonius tells us that upon hearing about his death the senators flocked to the senate-house, opened its doors, and took it in turns to heap praises on the deceased emperor, speaking more highly of him than they ever had when he was alive. We should be sceptical about seeing this as genuine, probably reflecting instead their attempt to ingratiate themselves with his brother and successor, Domitian.
Domitian
“It was a terrible thing to be an emperor”, Domitian once said, “for everybody thought his paranoia was groundless until he ended up murdered.”
Whether or not this quote was apocryphal we’ll never know. If it wasn’t, it’s certainly ironic as it perfectly foreshadowed his own death, assassinated by one of his niece’s attendants in the emperor’s bedroom on September 18, 96 AD.
Another irony about Domitian’s death, and a shared feature of other Roman emperor deaths, was that he was already aware of its time and manner through a prophecy. Domitian’s father, Vespasian, had once laughed at him when he rejected some mushrooms over dinner, reminding him that it was the sword, not poison, he should be careful to avoid. This foreknowledge, repeatedly reinforced by a number of bizarre omens and portents he received throughout his life, apparently drove his murderous paranoia.
How Did Domitian Die?
Domitian had been told he would be killed on the sixth hour of September 18. What he hadn’t factored in was that those charged with telling him the time might be part of the conspiracy. On the appointed day, thinking the danger had passed, he agreed for someone with important news to visit him in his chambers, dismissing his attendants. Almost comedically, we’re still told that Domitian was “astonished” when he received his first stab wound. Other conspirators, including many of his chamber staff, then burst in, hacking the 45-year-old emperor to death and bringing his 15-year reign to an end.
Domitian was one of Rome’s worst emperors, and so earned one of the worst Roman emperor deaths. Or at least that’s what we’re told. The Roman satirist Juvenal dubbed Domitian “the bald Nero”, but what he and Nero shared was not personality but being the last rulers of their respective dynasty—Nero, the Julio-Claudians; Domitian, the Flavians.
This in many ways guaranteed that they would be negatively portrayed. For short of cancelling the memory of their predecessor by subjecting them to damnatio memoriae, it was always in the interests of a successive dynast to portray his predecessor as malicious and incompetent.
What’s telling is that while the senators delighted over Domitian’s death, the army was distraught and the people indifferent. This should make us reconsider Domitian as a terrible emperor and lead us to ask new questions. For if Domitian really was as bad as our sources say, instead of asking why after 15 years he was killed, we might as why for 15 years he was allowed to live.
Stay Tuned for Part 2 of This Series on Roman Emperor Deaths
The esteemed ancient historian Fergus Millar once described the job of a Roman emperor as one of the worst jobs in the ancient world. Notwithstanding the constant receiving of delegations, the endless administrative tasks, and the navigating of court politics, the Roman emperor had to face the very real daily possibility that he could be assassinated at any moment.
As the illustration below shows, few Roman emperor deaths could be described as ‘euthanasia’, good deaths, with the majority consisting of a combination of assassinations, executions and deaths in battle.
The next article in our series will look at some of these deaths in detail. Make sure to stay tuned!
