Rome -- History -- Tiberius, 14-37; Tiberius, Emperor of Rome 42 B.C.-37 A.D.
Twenty-nine years after the battle of Actium the Senate, by the
voice of one of the noblest of their order, Marcus Valerius Messala,
hailed Augustus as the “Father of his Country.” The now aged Emperor
burst into tears, and declaring that he had reached the summit of his
ambition, prayed to the gods that they would allow him, so long as
life lasted, to continue to be worthy of the confidence thus expressed
by his countrymen. The title had perhaps been somewhat soiled by use;
Cicero had arrogated it to himself after that exhibition of consummate
statesmanship which quelled the conspiracy of Catiline, but it was none
the less a tribute to the singleness of purpose with which Augustus
had devoted himself to the welfare of the vast Empire committed to his
care. In the press of daily business and vexatious details Augustus may
often have failed to perceive how general was the recognition of his
services to the State, and we can pardon the display of uncontrolled
emotion which interrupted his customary calm on receiving this solemn
assurance that his labours had not been in vain.
As a matter of fact at this time, and for the rest of his life,
Augustus had no enemies save those of his own household. There was no
political opposition to the Emperor; small conspiracies such as those
of Murena and Cæpio there had been, the work of hot-headed youths who
wished to emulate the example of Brutus, and there were, as we have
seen, intrigues in the Emperor’s own family. As Suetonius mentions
among the plots directed against Augustus one in which Lucius Æmilius
Paullus, the husband of the younger Julia was concerned, we are at
liberty to suspect that in her case, as in her mother’s, it was thought
better to punish a graver offence as a case of domestic misconduct.
It was on this occasion that the poet Ovid learned that there is a
limit to the liberties which a man of fashion can allow himself, and
was forced to withdraw from his butterfly existence at Rome to the
mosquito-haunted swamps at the mouth of the Danube, where he wrote
poems more worthy of his dignity than any he had previously composed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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