The Emperor Returns: Triumph and Transformation

In early 134 CE, Emperor Hadrian concluded his brutal suppression of the Bar Kokhba revolt in Judea. After six years abroad overseeing the empire’s frontiers, his return to Rome should have been a moment of glory. The Senate unanimously voted to grant him a triumphal procession—the highest military honor. Yet Hadrian, in a characteristically unpredictable move, declined. Instead, he bestowed the honor upon his general, Sextus Julius Severus, the architect of Jerusalem’s fall.

Severus’s triumph, however, was deliberately diminished. Unlike imperial triumphs featuring a quadriga (a chariot drawn by four white horses), Severus rode a single white steed—a pointed reminder of Republican-era traditions that reserved the grandest spectacles for emperors alone. This calculated gesture revealed Hadrian’s evolving priorities: having secured the empire’s borders, he now sought to redefine imperial authority itself.

The Jewish War and Its Aftermath

The Bar Kokhba revolt (132–136 CE) was Rome’s bloodiest conflict with Judea. Hadrian’s postwar policies were ruthless: Jerusalem was renamed Aelia Capitolina, Jews were banned from the city, and circumcision—a core Jewish practice—was outlawed. These measures accelerated the Jewish Diaspora, scattering communities across the Mediterranean. Yet curiously, Roman records omit explicit mentions of the circumcision ban, perhaps reflecting lingering unease about its cruelty.

Hadrian’s handling of Judea marked a turning point. The emperor, once celebrated for his Hellenistic cosmopolitanism, now embraced a harder, more authoritarian style.

A Complex Character Unravels

Hadrian had always been an enigma. Ancient biographers described him as a paradox: generous yet frugal, charming yet aloof, intellectual yet impulsive. But after 134 CE, contemporaries noted a sharp deterioration. The once-vibrant ruler grew irritable, capricious, and prone to extravagance—traits exacerbated by failing health.

Roman historians blamed his decline on illness, possibly contracted during his grueling travels. The Historia Augusta recounts: “Exposure to storms, extreme heat, and cold ruined his health, leaving him bedridden.” Yet Hadrian remained intellectually engaged, even as his body betrayed him. His frustration manifested in erratic behavior, from public outbursts to morbid fixations.

Two Anecdotes of a Fading Emperor

1. The Silent Colosseum
During a raucous gladiatorial games, an overwhelmed Hadrian ordered a herald to demand silence. The clever herald, fearing backlash, instead gestured for quiet—claiming it was the emperor’s wish. When the crowd laughed, Hadrian acknowledged his misstep.

2. The Slave’s Denied Freedom
At the Circus Maximus, spectators begged Hadrian to free a champion charioteer—a customary gesture. The emperor coldly refused, citing legal technicalities. This petty defiance, unthinkable in his prime, underscored his growing isolation.

Hadrian’s Villa: A Refuge of Memory

As his health failed, Hadrian retreated to his sprawling villa at Tivoli (Villa Adriana). This architectural marvel blended Greek philosophy, Egyptian motifs, and Roman grandeur—yet conspicuously lacked portraits of Rome’s founders or philosophers. Instead, it housed statues of Antinous, Hadrian’s beloved youth who drowned mysteriously in the Nile, and sensual depictions of Apollo and Dionysus.

The villa’s design mirrored Hadrian’s psyche: brilliant, eclectic, and increasingly detached from Roman tradition.

The Succession Crisis

With no heir, Hadrian’s final years were consumed by succession planning. His first choice, Lucius Aelius Caesar, died abruptly in 138 CE, prompting the emperor to famously lament: “I leaned against a crumbling wall.” His next selection—the elderly Antoninus Pius—came with a condition: Antoninus must adopt Marcus Aurelius (the future philosopher-emperor) and Aelius’s son as his successors.

This dynastic maneuvering secured Rome’s future but deepened Hadrian’s estrangement from the Senate.

A Tortured End

By 138 CE, Hadrian was a shadow of himself. Plagued by edema and despair, he begged servants and physicians to help him commit suicide—all refused. When a loyal Greek doctor instead took his own life rather than obey, Hadrian abandoned the idea. His final days were spent dictating melancholic poetry, including his famous farewell:

> “Little soul, wandering and pale, / Guest and companion of my body, / Now you will descend to places / Pale, stiff, and bare, / Where you will cease your usual games.”

He died on July 10, 138 CE, at 62. The Senate, long alienated, initially resisted deifying him—a near-unprecedented slight. Only Antoninus’s tearful appeals secured Hadrian’s place among Rome’s divine emperors.

Legacy: The Architect of Empire

Five years after Hadrian’s death, the Greek orator Aelius Aristides praised Rome’s unified world: “You have made the earth one country… Your laws are the bonds of harmony.” This vision—of a cosmopolitan, interconnected empire—was Hadrian’s greatest achievement.

From Hadrian’s Wall to the Pantheon, his monuments endure. But his true legacy lies in the paradox he embodied: a ruler who expanded Rome’s borders while grappling with the limits of power, a philhellene who crushed Jewish identity, and a builder whose final construction was his own tortured myth.

In the end, Hadrian’s reign was a bridge—between the conquests of Trajan and the stoicism of Marcus Aurelius, between imperial grandeur and human frailty. His story reminds us that even the mightiest empires are shaped by the flawed men who lead them.