The Dawn of the Pax Romana

In January of 9 BCE, under crisp winter skies, Rome celebrated the completion of the Ara Pacis Augustae—the Altar of Augustan Peace. This architectural marvel, commissioned four years prior, stood as a testament to Emperor Augustus’s vision of stability after decades of civil war. The ceremony was a grand affair: Augustus, flanked by his family and the entire Senate, processed along the Via Flaminia from the Roman Forum to the newly erected altar. Citizens gathered to witness the sacrificial rites, watching smoke rise from the altar as offerings were made to the gods. The altar’s open colonnade allowed the public to glimpse the elite participants—symbolizing that the Pax Romana was not just an imperial decree but a shared aspiration.

Yet, the altar’s southern reliefs immortalized two absent figures: Agrippa, Augustus’s lifelong friend and architect of Rome’s infrastructure, who had died three years earlier, and Drusus the Elder, Augustus’s stepson, then campaigning in Germania. The sculptor’s foresight captured Drusus in military garb, a poignant detail that would soon take on tragic significance.

The Rise and Fall of Drusus the Elder

Drusus, at just 29, was the golden boy of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. A gifted general, he had spent four years leading daring campaigns into Germania, employing varied tactics to outmaneuver tribal forces. His 9 BCE campaign—launched from Mogontiacum (modern Mainz)—culminated in Roman forces reaching the Elbe River, a milestone that seemed to herald Germania’s submission. Augustus, who had long agonized over defying Caesar’s Rhine-centric strategy, saw Drusus’s successes as vindication.

But triumph turned to catastrophe during the winter retreat. Drusus fell from his horse, sustaining a fatal leg injury. Hesitation over amputation sealed his fate. His brother Tiberius, racing through snowbound terrain, arrived just in time to hold him as he died. Against soldiers’ pleas to bury Drusus on Germanic soil—a land they believed would soon be Roman—Tiberius insisted on returning the body to Rome. The procession, met by Augustus at Pavia, became a somber prelude to the altar’s unintended role as a memorial.

Cultural Reflections: Roman Views on Death and Legacy

The Ara Pacis, though a celebration of peace, inadvertently became a monument to mortality. Romans held a pragmatic view of death, often interring loved ones along bustling roads like the Via Appia, where tomb inscriptions mixed humor and humility:

– “Traveler, why not rest here? You’ll be staying soon enough.”
– “Fortune promises all but keeps no vows. Live well while you can.”

Augustus, ever the realist, included the deceased Agrippa in the altar’s family frieze, accepting impermanence. Yet Drusus’s death at 29 struck deeper—a life of potential cut short. Unlike Agrippa’s fulfilled career, Drusus’s demise left military and dynastic plans in disarray.

The Fractured Succession: Tiberius and Augustus’s Dilemma

Drusus’s death exposed fissures in Augustus’s succession plans. Tiberius, though a capable general, lacked his brother’s rapport with Augustus. Forced to divorce his beloved wife Vipsania to marry Augustus’s daughter Julia, Tiberius grew embittered. When Julia’s scandalous behavior and their child’s death eroded the marriage, Tiberius withdrew—a rift Augustus misread as ingratitude.

In 6 BCE, Augustus granted Tiberius tribunician power, a honor once bestowed only on Agrippa. But Tiberius, aware he was a placeholder for Augustus’s grandsons Gaius and Lucius, chafed at the role. Their clash over Germania’s conquest—Augustus saw victory; Tiberius saw unfinished work—escalated until Tiberius stunned Rome by retiring to Rhodes in 6 BCE, abandoning politics entirely.

Legacy: The Altar’s Silent Witness

The Ara Pacis endures as a paradox: a monument to peace shadowed by personal and political turmoil. Drusus’s death and Tiberius’s estrangement foreshadowed the Julio-Claudian dynasty’s instability. Augustus’s inability to reconcile with Tiberius—a man whose strategic acumen rivaled his own—left Rome vulnerable. The altar, meant to cement Augustus’s legacy, instead whispers of the fragility behind imperial grandeur.

Today, the Ara Pacis stands in Rome’s Museo dell’Ara Pacis, its reliefs frozen in time. Visitors tracing the faces of Augustus’s family glimpse not just a celebration of peace, but a poignant reminder of how quickly fortune’s favor can fade. The altar’s true lesson? Even the mightiest empires are built on human bonds—and their unraveling can echo for centuries.