Spring, 172 AD.
The Danube rushes past the log walls of a legionary fort.
At a bend, where a pontoon bridge has been thrown across the river, a line of soldiers
marches into barbarian territory.
Standard bearers and trumpeters lead the way, followed by troops in plate armor, a squadron
of the Praetorian Guard, and finally Emperor Marcus Aurelius himself, distinguished by
his long general’s cloak.
At the first marching camp, the army, now joined by troops of cavalry, assembles to
watch the emperor perform the traditional sacrifice of purification.
A courier, bearing news of the barbarians’ movements, rushes into the camp.
Warned of the enemy’s proximity, the legions set forth, burning barbarian fields and villages
as they march.
Barbarian outriders are captured, interrogated, and executed.
At a river deep in the German forests, the Romans encounter a small party of barbarians,
who pelt the emperor and his guards with sling stones before melting into the woods.
Shortly thereafter, a large barbarian force surrounds the Roman camp.
The Germans roll a siege tower forward; but miraculously, just before it reaches the camp
wall, it is incinerated by a lightning bolt.
A sortie scatters the barbarians.
The Romans cross a stream in the teeth of barbarian opposition, and pursue war bands
through trackless mountains.
And so on and on as the reliefs of the Column of Marcus Aurelius spiral upward.
Roman soldiers march in neat ranks, barbarians die, villages burn – and through it all,
the emperor stands aloof - godlike and alone.
Though intended to emphasize his quasi-divine power, this representation neatly evokes the
austere personality of Rome’s philosopher-emperor.
Marcus Aurelius was a stoic.
He believed that virtue was the only good, and that the essence of virtue lay in self-governance:
that, in short, it was imperative to accept, without joy or sorrow, all things beyond one’s
control.
Over his long years of campaigning, he jotted down – apparently for his eyes only – the
series of moral reflections we know as his Meditations.
In this philosophical diary, Marcus reminds himself to accept misfortune with understanding,
to never fear death, and to always be mindful of his duties.
One is left with the picture of a thoughtful and rather melancholy man, doggedly pursuing
moral perfection.
Marcus had begun his studies of Stoicism in childhood when, as a distant relative of Hadrian,
he had been tutored by the foremost scholars in the Empire.
We still possess some of Marcus’ letters to his tutor Fronto, which show a precocious
and very earnest teenager already imbued with a sense of duty.
This sense was only strengthened when, at the age of seventeen, Marcus was formally
adopted by Hadrian’s chosen successor, Antoninus Pius.
From a combination of skill and good luck, the 23-year reign of Antoninus Pius was characterized
by virtually unbroken peace and prosperity.
Marcus, as heir apparent, continued his education and assumed the traditional senatorial offices,
taking an increasingly important role in the imperial administration as Antoninus aged.
Upon Antoninus’ death, Marcus was immediately declared emperor by the Senate.
In keeping with a promise he had made decades before to Hadrian, he insisted that the Senate
declare his adoptive brother Lucius Verus co-emperor.
For the next eight years, Marcus and Verus ruled in concert – though in practice Marcus
was always the senior partner.
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Back to Marcus Aurelius.
During the summer of 161, only a few months after Marcus’ accession, the Parthian king
Vologases IV invaded the Roman protectorate of Armenia and installed a new ruler.
Shortly thereafter, a legion led by the Roman governor of Cappadocia was decisively defeated
by Parthian forces.
To stem the crisis, Marcus sent Lucius Verus to the eastern frontier with a retinue of
experienced generals.
These officers performed admirably, swiftly retaking Armenia and pushing into the Parthian
heartland.
In 165, the brilliant general Avidius Cassius took the Parthian capital at Ctesiphon, effectively
ending the war.
While in Mesopotamia, however, Avidius’ troops contracted a strange new disease.
It began with fever and cramps.
After a few days of vomiting and diarrhea, the victim’s body was covered with reddish
spots, which rapidly developed into raised pustules.
Then, very often, he died.
Smallpox had arrived in Europe.
The plague spread rapidly through the empire, eventually killing hundreds of thousands.
One of its last victims may have been Lucius Verus himself, who died suddenly in 169.
At this critical moment, as the legions reeled from loss of manpower, the barbarians invaded.
For centuries, two German tribes – the Marcomanni and the Quadi – had dominated the forested
lands along the left bank of the upper Danube.
Emboldened by the drain of Roman troops toward Parthia, chieftains of these tribes had begun
to lead raiding parties into the provinces of Noricum and Pannonia (roughly modern Austria
and Slovakia).
Recognizing the severity of the threat, Marcus reinforced the Danube frontier, and had begun
to mass troops for a major offensive when the plague struck.
He was further delayed by Verus’ death, which compelled him to return to Rome for
several months.
When Marcus finally returned to the frontier in the spring of 170, the Marcomanni and Quadi
were ready for him.
Just north of the legionary fortress at Carnuntum (not far from modern Vienna), the barbarians
inflicted a serious defeat on the hastily-assembled Roman troops.
Then, led by their king Ballomar, they raced around Marcus and made for Italy.
By late summer, the Germans were besieging the great city of Aquilea, near modern Venice.
Marcus summoned troops from every frontier and managed – barely – to drive the barbarians
from Italy and the Balkans.
Then, determined to destroy the German threat, he gathered the full might of the Roman military
machine and, in the spring of 172, crossed the Danube into the territory of the Marcomanni.
Soon after, the Romans faced the Marcomanni in a major battle.
Although the fighting was intense – Marcus’ praetorian prefect was killed – the Romans
were victorious, and the Marcomanni had been pacified by the end of the campaigning season.
The next year, however, the Quadi attacked Roman territory and had to be subdued in their
turn.
In 174, having crushed the Quadi, Marcus moved the legions east to begin a new campaign against
the Sarmatians, a nomadic tribe famed for its heavy cavalry.
After winning a series of victories, Marcus was forced to cut the campaign short by the
news that his trusted lieutenant Avidius Cassius – the hero of the Parthian War – had declared
himself emperor.
Avidius managed to gain control of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt – but when the legions
of the Rhine and Danube remained loyal to Marcus, his support melted away, and he was
conveniently executed by his own troops.
After touring the eastern provinces to confirm their loyalty, Marcus returned to Rome for
the first time in eight years and celebrated a grand triumph over the Marcomanni, Quadi,
and Sarmatians.
He seized the opportunity to have his fifteen-year-old son Commodus declared co-emperor – a gesture
that would prove to be his greatest mistake.
Initially, however, Commodus seems to have been a dutiful heir apparent, accompanying
his father back to Germany when the Marcomanni and Quadi revolted and again attacked Roman
territory.
Commodus was with Marcus when he died at Vindobona – modern Vienna – in March 180; and it
was likely Commodus who commissioned the Column that celebrates his father’s victories.
The Column of Marcus Aurelius was modeled on Trajan’s Column, which had been dedicated
sixty years before.
Like Trajan’s Column, it was 100 Roman feet tall, and decorated with a scrolling band
of reliefs.
But where the reliefs of Trajan’s column celebrated the establishment of order, focusing
more on construction and ritual than on battle, the reliefs of the Column of Marcus Aurelius
show all the savage realities of war.
Men writhe and die on the battlefield, woman scream as their homes are burnt, captives
weep as they are led to execution.
But one figure rises above the storm of hate and fear.
In scene after scene, the emperor appears cool and composed, with eyes that seem to
look beyond the horrors of the battlefield, toward the impossible path of virtue.
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