The Death of Lucius Verus and the End of Dual Rule

In the early months of 169 CE, the Roman Empire faced an unexpected crisis. Lucius Verus, co-emperor alongside Marcus Aurelius, was returning to Rome when he fell gravely ill near Altinum, just 100 kilometers from the capital. After two days of unconsciousness, the 39-year-old emperor succumbed—likely to a cerebral hemorrhage, a fate scholars attribute to his notoriously indulgent and erratic lifestyle. His sudden death marked the abrupt end of Rome’s experiment with dual emperorship, an arrangement originally conceived by Marcus Aurelius to share power equitably.

Though historical records are silent on the emperors’ initial plans for the year, Marcus Aurelius personally escorted Lucius’s body back to Rome, where an elaborate state funeral was held. Lucius’s ashes were interred in Hadrian’s Mausoleum (later known as Castel Sant’Angelo). The Senate swiftly approved Marcus’s request to deify his colleague, though no dedicated temple was built—a pragmatic decision, as Marcus cited the empire’s precarious military situation and proposed using the Pantheon as a temporary substitute.

A Widow, a Crisis, and a Strategic Marriage

Following the funeral, Marcus remained in Rome to address an urgent dynastic dilemma: his daughter Lucilla, Lucius Verus’s widow, was now a 19-year-old orphaned empress. To modern observers, remarrying her so soon might seem callous, but Marcus had compelling reasons. With the Germanic wars raging and his own son Commodus only eight years old, the empire needed a stabilizing figure—a regent capable of preventing chaos should Marcus fall in battle.

His choice fell on Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus, a Syrian-born general governing Pannonia Superior. Though lacking the aristocratic pedigree of Rome’s elite (his family had only recently gained citizenship), Pompeianus had impressed Marcus during a prior inspection tour. His troops were disciplined, his strategic advice sound, and his character unshakably loyal—qualities that outweighed his modest origins. Crucially, he embodied the Roman virtues that Marcus, himself of Spanish descent, revered in provincial leaders.

The marriage, however, proved politically astute but personally frigid. Lucilla, once an empress, bristled at her new husband’s humble background. Even her mother, Faustina the Younger, initially resisted the match. Though the couple eventually had children, their union remained strained—a rare domestic discord in Marcus’s otherwise harmonious family life.

The Philosopher-Emperor’s Private World

While 169 CE brought turmoil—Lucius’s death, Lucilla’s remarriage, and the loss of Marcus’s second son—it also revealed the emperor’s steadfast marriage. Faustina, often maligned by historians (partly due to their son Commodus’s later infamy), was far from the decadent empress of rumor. She joined Marcus on the Danube frontier, living austerely among soldiers and earning the title mater castrorum (“Mother of the Camp”).

Marcus’s Meditations offer a glimpse of their bond: “I was blessed with a wife so obedient, so loving, so simple.” Over 30 years, they had 14 children (though only six survived infancy)—a testament to both fertility and mutual devotion. In an era when emperors often took mistresses, Marcus’s fidelity was remarkable.

Legacy: The Weight of Solitary Rule

Lucius’s death forced Marcus to shoulder imperial duties alone, a burden compounded by the Germanic wars. Pompeianus, now his son-in-law, became indispensable, leading armies and later mentoring the young Commodus. Yet the marriage’s emotional frost foreshadowed deeper tensions: Lucilla would eventually conspire against Commodus, leading to her exile.

Marcus’s reign, often romanticized as the “Golden Age” of Stoic rule, was in reality a time of relentless crisis—plague, war, and personal loss. His partnership with Faustina and reliance on men like Pompeianus reveal a ruler who, for all his philosophical detachment, understood the necessity of human alliances. The year 169 CE, though overshadowed by larger events, laid bare the fragile machinery of power—and the personal costs of upholding it.

Why This History Matters Today

Marcus Aurelius’s decisions in 169 CE resonate beyond antiquity. His handling of succession crises, reliance on competent outsiders like Pompeianus, and balancing of public duty with private loyalty offer timeless lessons. In an age of political fragmentation, his story reminds us that even philosopher-kings must navigate messy human realities—a truth as relevant now as in the twilight of Rome’s golden age.