The Heroes and Villians Series - Ancient Rome - The Rise of Augustus

After the Death of Antony and the Fall of Lepidus – Told by Caesar Augustus

They say power corrupts, but I have always believed that power, when guided by reason and restraint, can restore greatness. After Julius Caesar, my adoptive father, was murdered, Rome spiraled into chaos. I was only 18, but his will named me his heir. From that moment, I was no longer just Gaius Octavius—I was Caesar’s son in name and destiny.

Mark Antony was once my ally. Together with Lepidus, we formed the Second Triumvirate to avenge Caesar’s death and bring justice to his assassins. But the unity was brief. Lepidus grew too bold and tried to challenge me by rallying troops in Sicily. I stripped him of power and spared his life, banishing him to obscurity. Antony, on the other hand, turned East—where he found love and ambition in Egypt with Cleopatra.

His betrayal was not just personal, it was political. Antony began to style himself as a god-king with Cleopatra at his side, dividing Roman lands among their children. He had forgotten Rome. I did not.

At Actium, in 31 BC, our fleets met. Agrippa, my most trusted general, led the battle. The gods favored us. Antony and Cleopatra fled, and soon after, they died by their own hands. With them gone, I stood alone as the master of the Roman world.

The Mask of the Republic: Restoring What Was Broken

Victory was mine, but I did not seize the throne. That was not the Roman way. The people feared kings—they remembered Tarquin and the fall of the monarchy centuries earlier. No, if I were to rule, it would be as a restorer, not a tyrant.

I returned powers to the Senate in 27 BC, and in a grand ceremony, I declared that the Republic had been restored. The Senators, grateful and cautious, begged me to stay and guide the state. Of course, I accepted, but not with the title of king. Instead, they gave me a new name: Augustus, meaning “the revered one.” It had never been used for a man before. That name marked the birth of something entirely new.

I took on the humble title of princeps, or “first citizen.” Let others believe we had returned to the old ways. But in truth, I held ultimate authority—military command, the treasury, foreign policy, and more. I was careful, always working within the forms of the Republic, never appearing to dominate, even as I quietly reshaped it.

Shaping the Image: Father of the Nation

I knew power needed more than force—it needed a story. I presented myself not as a ruler, but as the Pater Patriae, the Father of the Country. I commissioned temples, restored public buildings, and paid for games and spectacles. My image was everywhere: on coins, statues, and in poems written by great artists like Virgil and Horace.

The Ara Pacis, the Altar of Peace, was built in my honor to celebrate the Pax Romana—the long-awaited peace I had given Rome. I didn’t just want to be remembered as a conqueror, but as a bringer of harmony and tradition. I reformed marriage laws, revived old religious rituals, and claimed to have returned moral virtue to a weary republic.

Even in my final words, engraved in stone in my Res Gestae, I reminded the Roman people not of the wars I had won, but of the peace I had secured.

From Octavius to Augustus: The Beginning of Empire

I began as Octavius, the young man no one expected to survive in the shark pool of Roman politics. I became Caesar’s son, then the avenger, and finally, Augustus—the first Emperor of Rome, though I never wore a crown or called myself one.

The Republic had ended—not with a declaration, but with a sigh of relief. The Empire was born, veiled in the language of tradition but pulsing with new life. I gave Rome order, peace, and a legacy that would last for centuries.

This is my story—not just of power seized, but of chaos quieted, of a Republic transformed, and of a world reborn under the shadow of my name.

The Illusion of the Old: A Republic Reborn in Name – Told by Caesar Augustus

When the dust of civil war had finally settled, Rome stood weary but eager for peace. I knew the people feared kings and tyranny, yet they longed for order. So I gave them both stability and familiarity—but under a new form. I didn’t dismantle the Republic. I reshaped it.

In 27 BC, I offered to surrender my powers back to the Senate and the people. Of course, they refused. Instead, they granted me control over the most important provinces—those with legions, resources, and strategic borders. In return, I accepted the title Augustus and became princeps, or “first citizen.”

This was the beginning of the Principate. It looked like a republic, sounded like a republic—but functioned as a monarchy in disguise.

What Stayed: The Shell of the Republic

To calm old fears, I allowed many of the Republic’s institutions to remain—at least in appearance.

• The Senate still met, debated, and passed decrees.

• Magistrates were still elected: consuls, praetors, and quaestors.

• The Assemblies still voted, though their power waned with time.

These familiar forms reassured the public and aristocracy that Rome had not lost its identity. I honored tradition while ensuring that true control flowed through me. My presence guided the state, not with chaos or drama, but with quiet strength.

What Changed: The Real Power Behind the Curtain

What remained was form. What changed was function. The real power rested in my hands:

• I held imperium maius—greater command than any provincial governor.

• I was granted tribunician power for life, giving me authority to veto laws, propose legislation, and act as protector of the people.

• I controlled foreign policy, taxation, and the military.

No law passed, no order executed, without my approval. The people believed they still had a Republic, but they trusted me to guide it—because I brought them peace, prosperity, and dignity.

This delicate balance between old names and new realities was the genius of the Principate.

Reorganizing for an Empire

As the territories of Rome stretched from Spain to Syria, I recognized the need for efficiency and professionalism. So I restructured how the state functioned.

• I divided the provinces into senatorial and imperial: the quiet ones to the Senate, the rest to me.

• I created a standing bureaucracy, often staffed by equestrians and freedmen—loyal men with skill, not just bloodlines.

• I oversaw infrastructure, grain supply, and even moral reform, setting an example for Roman virtue.

The government now served the people rather than competed for personal gain. I had become not just Rome’s ruler, but its steward.

A New Rome with an Old Face

I was not a king. I never wore a crown or sat on a throne. But Rome needed more than tradition—it needed guidance. So I governed as princeps, not dictator. The people worshipped my image, but I offered them peace. The Senate bowed to my judgment, but I preserved their honor.

This was the Principate: a new system rooted in old values. It was the Republic’s soul reborn in imperial flesh—an Empire hidden in plain sight. And I, Augustus, was its architect.

The Lessons of Civil War

When I was young—barely a man—I witnessed firsthand how dangerous Rome’s armies had become. Soldiers no longer served the Republic; they served ambitious generals who promised them riches, land, or glory. It was this shifting loyalty that tore the Republic apart. I vowed, when peace was mine, that I would create an army that served Rome—and no one else.

After the defeat of Antony and Cleopatra, the chaos ended. But it was not enough to disband legions. I needed to rebuild the military from the ground up. My reforms would create an army that was no longer a political weapon—but a pillar of stability.

A Career, Not a Campaign: The Professional Soldier

I reduced the bloated army to a leaner, more efficient force—about 28 legions, each made up of soldiers who would now serve as a career, not for a single campaign.

Under my rule, soldiers enlisted for 20 years of active duty and often served an additional 5 years in reserve. In return, they received regular pay, food, and a retirement reward—either a grant of land or a generous cash payment. No longer would veterans wander the streets of Rome, forgotten by the Republic they once served.

To pay for this, I created a special fund—the aerarium militare, the military treasury—funded through taxes and personal contributions from my own wealth. This guaranteed soldiers would be taken care of without relying on generals to fulfill promises.

I also established standard training, equipment, and ranks across the legions. Each soldier knew his place, his duty, and his future. Discipline was restored. Loyalty was returned—not to an individual—but to Rome, and through Rome, to me.

The Shield Within: The Praetorian Guard

While the legions protected the frontiers, I also needed protection at the heart of the empire. Thus, I formed the Praetorian Guard—a special, elite force chosen from among the finest soldiers in Italy.

They served not in distant provinces, but in or near Rome itself. Their role was more than ceremonial—they were the guardians of peace, order, and the stability of my rule. Their presence reminded all that the princeps was not merely a figurehead, but a ruler with strength behind him.

They wore the finest armor, received the highest pay, and enjoyed privileges unknown to common soldiers. In return, they gave me their unwavering loyalty—and stood ready to defend Rome from internal threats.

Guardians of the Empire

My military reforms did more than strengthen Rome—they preserved the peace. With professional legions patrolling the empire’s borders and the Praetorian Guard watching over the capital, I ensured that civil war would not return. The power of the sword was now under the command of law and order—not ambition.

The army became not just a tool of war, but a symbol of the Pax Romana—the peace I brought to a weary world. And through these reforms, I secured not only my position but the future of Rome for generations. I gave Rome soldiers who were loyal, skilled, and proud to serve—not warlords, but warriors of the state.

My Name is Maecenas, The Patron Behind the Power

I was born into an ancient Etruscan family, the Cilnii, sometime around 70 BC. Though I bore no great titles and sought no military glory, my blood was noble, and my education steeped in Greek philosophy, Latin literature, and statesmanship. From an early age, I realized I was not made for the battlefield—I was made for the salon, the scroll, and the stage. My talents lay not in leading legions, but in cultivating minds, forging friendships, and guiding power through counsel, not command.

Fate would bring me close to the two men who would shape Rome forever: Octavian, who would become Augustus, and Marcus Agrippa, the sword of empire. I became something else—the voice behind the throne, and more importantly, Rome’s guardian of the arts.

Friend of Augustus, Architect of Peace

I met Octavian as he rose from the chaos following Caesar’s assassination. He was young, clever, and cautious, but determined. I offered him counsel, discretion, and loyalty, and he entrusted me with diplomacy, finances, and delicate matters that required a subtle hand. I negotiated treaties, settled internal disputes, and advised him in both war and peace.

But I sought no office—no consulship, no triumphs. I had the emperor’s trust, and that was enough. While others clamored for public glory, I served in the shadows, helping to shape the early Augustan state with quiet consistency. I was not Rome’s ruler, but I was its balancer, its stabilizer, its whisperer in the ear of power.

The Patron of Poets

I believed that empire alone was not enough. A nation must have soul as well as sword. And so I became the patron of poets, nurturing a generation that would define Rome’s golden age of literature.

Virgil, my friend and gentle spirit, wrote of Rome’s destiny in the Aeneid, a work that still stands as our national epic. I supported him, advised him, and ensured his work reached the emperor’s hands. Horace, witty and wise, once poor and bitter, became my beloved companion. I gave him a Sabine farm and freedom, and in return, he gave Rome his odes, his satires, and his immortal verse.

Through their pens—and my support—we told Rome’s story not just in marble and law, but in rhythm and metaphor.

Living Modestly, Thinking Grandly

Though close to Augustus and surrounded by luxury, I lived with refined simplicity. I wore plain tunics. I dined without extravagance. My gardens were filled not with gold, but with conversation, scrolls, and music. I disdained the greed and grandeur that swallowed so many of my peers.

I did not marry, though I loved. I did not govern, though I shaped governors. I lived not to command, but to create a climate in which greatness could thrive—through policy, through poetry, and through peace.

My Final Years and Enduring Legacy

As Augustus grew older, and new advisors gathered around him, I stepped back from public affairs. I spent my final years surrounded by the beauty I had helped preserve—Rome at peace, culture in bloom, and my name quietly written into its history.

I died in 8 BC, leaving behind no heirs, no monument, no grand mausoleum. But my legacy endures in the verses of poets, in the calm of Augustus’ reign, and in the very soul of the Roman Golden Age.

The Culture We Shaped – Told by Maecenas

When I was a younger man, Rome was loud with the clash of ambition and the cries of civil war. Art had been drowned in blood, and literature—once the pride of our ancestors—had become either silence or satire, written by those too jaded to hope. Temples crumbled, homes burned, and even the gods seemed to have withdrawn.

But when Octavian—whom the world came to know as Augustus—rose to power, he knew that military victory was not enough. If Rome was to rule the world, she would need to rediscover her soul. She would need poets, historians, artists, and builders to capture what legions could not.

That, I believed, was my task. Others won provinces; I would help win hearts and refine Rome’s spirit.

Art in the Age of Order

Augustus encouraged a revival of traditional Roman values, but he did not force artists to flatter him with empty praise. He wanted genuine works—rooted in Roman identity, moral strength, and civic pride. Art was no longer the private luxury of the elite; it became a public force for unity.

Under his rule, architecture moved toward classical harmony and symbolism. The temples we rebuilt were not mere shelters for statues—they were monuments to renewal. The Ara Pacis, with its graceful friezes, depicted both the imperial family and the mythic origins of Rome. Every figure, every vine, every carved beast whispered of order restored and peace granted.

Even private homes and public baths became canvases. Frescoes in the homes of Rome’s rising class depicted myths, landscapes, and moral lessons. Artists were no longer anonymous laborers—they were storytellers of the empire.

The Pen as Empire’s Companion: Literature Reborn

I believed that literature must serve both beauty and truth, and under my patronage, I brought forth voices that would echo for centuries.

Virgil, the gentle giant of verse, was my greatest friend. I supported him as he composed the Aeneid, our answer to Homer. In Aeneas, he gave Rome a hero both human and fated, carrying gods and duty on his shoulders. It was no simple praise of Augustus, but a poetic roadmap to Rome’s destiny.

Horace, whom I plucked from obscurity, gave us satire, lyric, and wisdom wrapped in wit. His Odes celebrated moderation, friendship, loyalty, and the simple pleasures of rural life. His verse echoed Augustus’ message: a return to Roman virtue.

And then there was Livy, the historian. He wrote not of current politics, but of the earliest days of Rome, in his Ab Urbe Condita. Through him, the people learned their origins—not just the myths of Romulus, but the moral stories of early Romans who chose duty over desire, discipline over pride. Livy did not merely preserve the past; he offered it as a mirror for the present.

A Culture with Purpose

We were not creating art for art’s sake. We were shaping a new Roman identity. After years of chaos, we needed more than laws and soldiers. We needed a shared vision of what it meant to be Roman. Augustus knew this. I knew this.

That is why I supported writers and sculptors. That is why temples rose and stories flowed. We were teaching a people how to see themselves again—not as victims of civil war, but as citizens of a destiny-given peace.

My Quiet Pride

I held no public office, commanded no army, and wore no crown. But in the lines of poetry, in the carved scenes of peace, and in the pride of the Roman heart, my work remains.

We are the Cult of Roma and Augustus

I was born in Pergamum, in the province of Asia, far from the old heart of Rome—but not far from her influence. For generations, we honored the gods of Olympus, blending Greek tradition with Roman governance. Yet in my youth, a new flame was lit—one not born of Olympus, but of Rome herself. It was the beginning of what we came to call the Cult of Roma and Augustus.

In the years following Rome’s civil wars, a longing swept the provinces—not just for peace, but for a living symbol of stability and favor. That symbol became Augustus. The Senate may have named him “princeps,” but to us in the provinces, he was more than a ruler—he was chosen by the gods, and perhaps one himself.

Roma Eternal, Augustus Divine

The cult did not begin in Rome. No, we in the provinces began it, and Rome later followed. In Pergamum, we built the first temple to Rome and Augustus around 29 BC. It honored both the eternal city—Roma—as a divine spirit, and Augustus, the man who had saved her.

To us, Roma was more than a city. She was a goddess—guardian of law, order, and civilization. And Augustus? He was her earthly companion, the mortal hand of divine will. We offered incense, prayers, and sacrifices at their altars, not out of fear—but out of gratitude. For through Augustus, the gods had given the world peace.

The Peace That Made Worship Possible

Under Augustus, the world changed. Roads were built. Pirates and bandits were chased away. Armies no longer marched on fellow Romans. The Pax Romana—the Roman Peace—gave us the freedom to prosper, worship, and live without fear.

And so our devotion deepened. In cities from Gaul to Syria, temples rose. Statues of Augustus stood alongside Mars and Jupiter. His birthday became a sacred festival. We sang hymns, performed rituals, and held games in his honor. We honored his genius—his divine spirit—and his role as pater patriae, the Father of the Nation.

Unity Through Worship

Our cult was not just religious—it was political, cultural, and deeply unifying. In a vast empire with many gods and customs, worshiping Roma and Augustus gave us something in common. A man in Spain and a woman in Egypt could stand before the same altar, speak the same prayers, and feel part of the same destiny.

It was not forced upon us. We embraced it. It was a way to honor the peace and prosperity we could see with our own eyes. And when we offered sacrifice, we did so not only for ourselves—but for the emperor, the empire, and the eternal city that bound us all.

A Living Flame

Even now, I tend the flame in our local shrine. Children bring garlands. Veterans bow their heads. Traders give thanks before journeys. And we remember the one who restored Rome—not just with laws and armies, but with order, dignity, and divine favor.

I do not know what gods Augustus spoke to in private. But I know this: in serving Roma and Augustus, we serve both the heavens and the earth. We worship not only the past, but the promise of a future—strong, unified, and blessed by the divine.

When the Gods Were Silent – Told by the Cult of Roma and Augustus

I remember a time—when I was still a child—when the temples stood empty. The priests muttered the old prayers, but few listened. Young men mocked the gods, and even older ones began to forget the sacred rites. Civil wars had shaken Rome and her provinces. Families were broken. Temples burned. Men served only themselves. It felt as though the gods had turned their faces away from us.

But when Augustus rose, everything began to change.

Augustus and the Return of the Sacred

Augustus did more than end the wars—he restored the soul of Rome. He spoke often of pietas, the sacred duty to gods, country, and family. He did not just build new temples—he rebuilt the old ones, ones that had crumbled through neglect and pride. He revived ceremonies that hadn’t been performed for generations.

When he became Pontifex Maximus, the highest priest in Rome, he made religion once again a public responsibility, not a private superstition. The gods were not just returned to their altars—they were returned to our daily lives.

Morality in the Home and Heart

But Augustus knew that religion without morality is empty. He passed laws that urged us to return to the virtues of our ancestors—faithfulness in marriage, respect for elders, duty to one’s children and to the state. Adultery, which once was winked at, became a crime again. Marriage and children were encouraged, not just for family pride, but for Rome’s survival.

We were reminded that greatness does not come from conquest alone—it comes from character, from living honorably, from serving something higher than oneself. The poets, like Horace and Virgil, sang of this too, praising moderation, simplicity, courage, and reverence.

The Temples Live Again

In the forum and in the countryside, the temples were no longer silent. I saw with my own eyes the Temple of Apollo Palatinus rise near Augustus’ home—its steps gleaming in white marble. The Ara Pacis, the Altar of Peace, was not just a monument to victory, but a holy space, filled with the images of Rome’s gods, priests, and Augustus’ own family offering sacrifice.

Every festival, every sacred game, every restored rite reminded us: Rome endures because the gods are with us—and they are with us because we remember them.

The Sacred Flame Burns On

Now, I serve at the local shrine, tending the small flame that represents both Roma eternal and Augustus’ divine favor. When I see young children learning the ancient prayers again, when families bring offerings to the gods, when farmers ask for blessings on their fields, I know that this revival is real.

Augustus gave us more than peace—he gave us back our moral compass, our cultural identity, and our spiritual foundation. He reminded us who we are. And in doing so, he didn’t just save Rome—he sanctified it.

My Name is Marcus Agrippa (63–12 BC)

I was born in 63 BC, not into the aristocracy of Rome, but into a family of solid equestrian rank—modest, but Roman to the core. From the beginning, I was taught discipline, loyalty, and the value of hard work. These traits would carry me far—further than I could have ever imagined.

My greatest fortune came early: I became the close companion of Gaius Octavius, the future Caesar Augustus. We were students together, and even then, I knew there was greatness in him. What neither of us could have known was how closely our fates would be entwined—he the leader of Rome, I the builder of his victories.

Warrior in the Civil Wars

After the assassination of Julius Caesar in 44 BC, chaos returned to Rome. Octavian, adopted son and heir of Caesar, rose to claim his destiny—and I rose with him. Together we faced his enemies—first Mark Antony, then the conspirators, then the very republic that resisted change.

One of my most decisive victories came at Naulochus, where I crushed the fleet of Sextus Pompey, ending his piracy and restoring grain to a starving Rome. But my greatest achievement in battle—what some call my masterpiece—was the Battle of Actium in 31 BC. There, I led Octavian’s fleet to victory against Antony and Cleopatra. It was not only a naval triumph—it was the moment that ended the civil wars and cleared the way for the Roman Empire.

Builder of Rome’s Glory

Though I was a general, I was not content with victory in battle. I wanted to build a Rome worthy of peace. With Augustus at the helm of state, I turned my attention to the city itself.

I organized the first unified water supply system in Rome, repairing and building aqueducts, including the Aqua Julia and Aqua Virgo, which still flow today. I restored and constructed baths, sewers, streets, and public buildings, ensuring that the capital of the world was not just powerful, but livable.

But perhaps the most enduring symbol of my legacy is the Pantheon. Though the structure you see today was rebuilt later, I built the original as a temple to all the gods—a reflection of Rome’s unity and diversity, and its divine destiny.

Loyal Friend and Family Man

Augustus trusted me like no other. I married his daughter Julia, making me not only his friend but his son-in-law and a part of the imperial family. Our children would carry forward his vision, and one—Agrippina the Elder—would become mother to an emperor herself.

I never sought the spotlight. I refused triumphs, avoided boasting, and served only for the good of Rome. Augustus held the honors; I provided the victories. He led with vision; I followed with strength.

A Life of Quiet Power

In my final years, I served as governor of the East, where I settled disputes, built cities, and maintained the peace. I was consul three times, a rare feat for a man not born into nobility. I never betrayed Augustus, never sought a crown, and never placed ambition above duty.

When I died in 12 BC, the entire empire mourned. Augustus himself delivered my funeral oration. He knew, as did all of Rome, that I had been the architect of his victories and the quiet strength behind the rise of the Empire.

Rome’s Reach Must Be Secure – Told by Marcus Agrippa

When the wars were over and Augustus began to shape what would become the Roman Empire, he looked not only to Rome, but to the whole Mediterranean. Peace had to be protected, borders had to be defended, cities had to be built—and I was the man he sent to do it. I was no senator seeking applause. I was a soldier, a planner, a servant of the empire.

Augustus trusted me with matters too vast for the Senate and too vital for mistakes. He ruled with wisdom from the heart of Rome, and I carried his vision to the provinces, from the shores of Gaul to the temples of the East.

In Gaul and the West: Order from Chaos

Shortly after the Battle of Actium, I was dispatched to Gaul, where the people still bore the memory of Caesar’s conquests and the wounds of the civil wars. There, my task was twofold: pacify the restless tribes and build the infrastructure of loyalty.

I oversaw the construction of roads, aqueducts, and colonies, strengthening Roman control and binding these lands to the capital. I also conducted a census, a first for the region, giving Augustus the data he needed to tax and govern justly. With each act, we brought civilization where there had once been resistance.

Taming the Sea: The Western Naval Commands

Before Actium, I had already been ordered to take command of the western fleet and secure Rome’s lifeline—the sea. Pirates and rogue commanders like Sextus Pompey had made the waters dangerous. In response, I built new ships, trained fresh crews, and defeated Sextus at the Battle of Naulochus, securing the western Mediterranean and allowing Rome’s grain and commerce to flow once again.

I established naval bases, ports, and secure trade routes, ensuring that the sea no longer divided our empire but held it together.

In the East: Peace with Parthia and the Provinces

Years later, Augustus sent me to the eastern provinces as imperial governor, one of the most critical roles in the empire. The East was rich, ancient, and proud, and it required more than force—it required diplomacy, building, and respect.

In Asia Minor, Syria, and the Aegean, I restored temples, improved cities, and helped settle disputes between kingdoms. I treated the local peoples with fairness and dignity, knowing that loyalty could not be bought with swords alone. I also worked to maintain peace with Parthia, our rival to the east, and was involved in planning defensive lines and alliances across the Euphrates.

It was not only Roman might they saw—it was Roman stability, and my hand was steady.

Founding and Building Across the Empire

Augustus often spoke of leaving a legacy not only in law but in stone and structure. He gave me leave to act with imperial authority, and so I built wherever I was sent—not as monuments to myself, but as gifts to the people and expressions of Roman power.

I founded and rebuilt cities throughout Gaul, Hispania, and the East. Roads I planned became Roman veins, carrying soldiers, merchants, and messengers. My engineers and I extended aqueducts to growing settlements and organized urban plans with forums, baths, and theaters—all signs of a world becoming Roman.

The Empire Is More Than Rome

Some believe empire is measured in territory. I came to believe it is measured in peace, in bridges built instead of burned, in water flowing to thirsty towns, in loyalty forged from trust, not fear.

Through my campaigns and commands, Augustus gave me more than orders—he gave me his confidence. I did not wear a crown or seek triumphal processions. I wore armor when needed and held blueprints when peace allowed.

And through it all, I watched as Rome’s spirit stretched from the Atlantic to the Euphrates, not as a conqueror, but as a builder.

My Hand in the Empire’s Frame

Wherever I was sent—from stormy Gaul to sun-washed Syria, from the eastern courts to the western coasts—I acted for one reason alone: to fulfill Augustus’ vision. He was the architect of empire, and I was his right hand.

While others sought to rule Rome, I built it. Not only in the capital, but across the world that Rome had embraced.

My Name is Livia Drusilla (58 BC – AD 29)

I was born in 58 BC into the Claudian family, one of the oldest and proudest names in Rome. My father, Marcus Livius Drusus Claudianus, raised me in the traditions of Roman womanhood—modesty, dignity, loyalty. Yet even as a girl, I watched the politics swirling around me and knew that influence was not always worn with a laurel or a toga—it could reside in a whisper, a marriage, or a gesture.

When I was still a teenager, I was married to Tiberius Claudius Nero, a cousin and political ally of the republicans. We had a son, also named Tiberius, who would one day wear the purple. But fate—and Rome—had other plans for me.

From Wife to Empress-in-Waiting

During the chaos after Julius Caesar’s assassination, my life was swept into the storm. As my husband aligned with those opposing Octavian, we fled Rome, living in exile as battles raged. But when we returned, everything changed. I was introduced to Gaius Octavius, the adopted son of Caesar, soon to be known as Augustus.

Though I was still married, and even pregnant, he was taken with me—and I with him. He divorced his wife. I divorced my husband. Scandal? Perhaps. But Rome was shifting, and we were to become its first imperial couple.

I married Augustus in 38 BC, and though we never had children together, I became his closest confidante, partner, and advisor. My sons, Tiberius and Drusus, were raised in the heart of the new regime.

A Matron of the Empire

They called me Livia Augusta, but I held no official title while Augustus lived. That did not matter. Behind closed doors and across marble halls, my influence was felt in every corner of the empire.

I advised Augustus on marriages, alliances, and appointments. I walked beside him during ceremonies and helped shape his moral reforms. I wore simple clothing, played the role of the ideal Roman matron, and upheld the virtues he claimed to restore—chastity, piety, family loyalty.

But I also played a quieter, longer game. I positioned my sons and grandsons for succession. Though many rivals fell, I did not strike them with swords—I outlasted them with patience and calculation.

The Mother of Emperors

When Augustus died in AD 14, he left behind an empire and a legacy—one I had helped build. In his will, he adopted my son Tiberius and named him heir. He also granted me the title Augusta, and I was permitted to retain all honors due to a member of the imperial family.

Now, at last, I could wield some power in my own name. But my relationship with Tiberius grew strained. He resented my guidance—or perhaps my control. He withdrew from Rome and from me. Still, the empire was in his hands, and I had helped place it there.

They called me “the mother of the nation,” and in truth, I had become Rome’s grandmother, matriarch, and memory.

Legacy in Stone and Blood

I died in AD 29, nearly 90 years old. I had seen the fall of the Republic, the rise of Augustus, and the beginning of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. I had buried a husband, a son, and a generation—but I left behind a world transformed.

Statues were raised in my honor. Temples bore my name. And my descendants would rule Rome for decades more—some wise, some cruel, but all connected to me. They may remember Augustus as Rome’s first emperor. But I was his anchor, his shadow, and his equal in purpose.

The Circles of Power – Told by Livia Drusilla

In Rome, power does not always roar like a lion—it often purrs like a cat behind silk curtains and marble colonnades. The Senate debated laws, yes, and the army enforced them, but those of us born or married into the great families knew the truth: real influence was shaped over banquets, whispered during festivals, and sealed through marriage contracts.

As the wife of Augustus, I did not wear a laurel crown or hold a magistrate’s staff—but I stood in the very heart of Roman high society, where friendships were forged, reputations destroyed, and the fates of men decided before a word reached the Forum.

Feasts, Festivals, and Subtle Negotiations

To the outsider, the life of the Roman elite may have seemed like a parade of luxurious feasts, endless festivals, and golden goblets overflowing with wine. And yes, the meals were rich, the villas lavish, and the games extravagant. But beneath the gold leaf and olive branches, every moment was strategic.

When I hosted a dinner, it was not for pleasure alone. It was a place to observe, to listen, to test loyalty. Who sat closest to whom? What rumors were passed? What ambitions were hidden in compliments? Every glance, every toast was a chess move.

Women like me were expected to remain in the background—graceful, modest, dignified. And so I did. But I also chose the guest lists, arranged alliances, and watched which senators my husband smiled at a little too long.

Marriage: The Empire’s Quiet Weapon

The elite did not marry for love. We married for legacy. Marriage was our most powerful political tool.

I was once married to a man who opposed Augustus—and then I married Augustus himself. That one decision elevated not only my status but my family’s fortunes. Later, I arranged the marriages of my children and grandchildren with the future of Rome in mind, not their personal happiness.

Each wedding tied families together, brought allies closer, and diluted rival power. Behind each bride’s veil stood a web of political strategy. We knew that a quiet agreement in the atrium could do what ten legions never could.

Reputation: The Currency of the Elite

In Rome, your name was everything. A scandal could ruin a career. A well-placed compliment could earn a province. I spent years carefully crafting the image of the perfect Roman matron—modest, obedient, virtuous. It made the people love me. It made Augustus trust me. And it disarmed my enemies, who never believed a woman who spoke so softly could carry so much weight.

But make no mistake—I protected my family’s legacy, even when it required difficult choices. Those who crossed the imperial family found their names whispered in dark corners, their invitations vanished, and their influence quickly drained.

The Quiet Power of Women

Though the law did not grant women the same rights as men, we were not powerless. The most skilled among us knew how to move behind the scenes. We counseled husbands, mentored sons, and controlled household fortunes. I shaped emperors in the cradle and whispered to rulers in the dark.

My voice did not echo through the Senate, but it was heard in every chamber where decisions were made. I guided Augustus with calm resolve and advised my son Tiberius, even as he strained against my influence.

The True Court of Rome

They say Rome was ruled from the Palatine Hill, by emperors and generals. But I say this: Rome was just as surely ruled from salons and gardens, from weddings and funerals, from whispered conversations over figs and honeyed wine.

I walked with grace, spoke with restraint, and built a dynasty with the tools given to me—not swords and shields, but silence, service, and strategy.

My Name is Plotina, wife of Trajan

I was born in the city of Nemausus in Gaul—what you may now call Nîmes—sometime around the year 70 AD. Though far from the Forum of Rome, I was raised in a family of standing and dignity. My family taught me the values of honor, reason, and restraint—virtues I would carry with me for the rest of my life. I never craved luxury or applause. What I craved was stability, philosophy, and the ability to serve with wisdom.

When I married Marcus Ulpius Trajan, a man of military excellence and noble heart, I did not know that fate would lift us both to the heights of empire. But I knew I would walk beside him—not merely as a wife, but as a trusted partner.

Wife of the Emperor

When Trajan became emperor in 98 AD, Rome entered what many now call her golden age. But greatness does not only come from conquest and marble—it must be guided by justice, learning, and peace within the soul. I saw it as my role to temper power with compassion, and to preserve the dignity of the imperial house.

I took no interest in lavish fashion or grand parades. I wore simple garments, lived modestly, and kept to a life of quiet discipline. The people noticed. They praised my virtue, humility, and intelligence. But I did not serve for their praise—I served for Rome, and for the ideals that make a society strong.

A Champion of Justice and Learning

I used my position not to enrich myself, but to improve the lives of others. I worked to reform legal procedures, especially for the poor. I spoke for those whose voices would never reach the ears of senators. I encouraged fairness in taxation, access to education, and respect for women and children. I knew Rome's greatness did not rest only on her soldiers, but on how she treated her most vulnerable citizens.

I also supported philosophers, teachers, and writers. Under my influence, the Stoics and other thinkers were welcomed again in Rome after years of suspicion. I believed in reason, in virtue, and in learning as the pillars of a just society.

No Children, But a Lasting Legacy

I bore no children, yet I did not let that diminish my purpose. As Trajan’s health declined, he and I both considered the future of the empire. I supported the adoption of Hadrian, a man raised in Trajan’s household and a student of mine in philosophy. Though there is debate to this day about how his succession came to pass, I can say this: I acted in the interest of Rome’s stability and Trajan’s vision.

Hadrian, once emperor, continued many of the policies Trajan had begun. He built cities, expanded education, and carried on the work of peace where conquest was no longer needed. In that, a piece of my legacy lived on.

The Final Years and a Quiet Departure

I died sometime after 121 AD, during the reign of Hadrian. I asked for no triumph, no temple, no cult in my name. Instead, I asked for my deeds to speak for themselves. Hadrian, in respect and gratitude, built a temple in my honor and named me divine. I had never sought such recognition, but I accepted it not for myself, but for what it symbolized: that wisdom and restraint had their place in empire.

Plotina Speaks: Life in the Empire Before My Time - Told by Plotina

Though I lived during the reign of my beloved husband, Emperor Trajan, I often reflected on the days of Caesar Augustus, the first emperor of Rome. His reign laid the foundations for the world I inherited—a Rome of marble and order, a people shaped by laws, traditions, and reform.

I did not witness his time with my own eyes, but I saw its effects in every street I walked, every family I encountered, and every structure that supported our daily lives. Augustus transformed Rome from a crumbling republic into a functioning empire, not only through military might, but by improving the lives of ordinary citizens. His vision of peace and prosperity rippled through generations—and I, a woman of a later age, often admired how he stitched Rome together through practical reforms and careful laws.

A New Rome for the Common People

When Augustus took power, the city of Rome was overcrowded, chaotic, and vulnerable to disease and disaster. He did not ignore the poor or treat the masses as tools of the state—he invested in urban reforms to make Rome a place where people could live with dignity.

He built and repaired roads, aqueducts, and public buildings. He organized fire brigades, created police forces, and cleared slums. New districts were laid out with better planning. Temples and public baths rose beside markets and forums. Augustus made Rome feel like the capital of a civilized empire, not just a playground for the elite.

By the time of my birth, these reforms were still serving the people. Every clean street, every flowing fountain, every food stall lining a well-paved road bore the distant mark of Augustus' touch.

The Grain That Fed the City

One of the most essential acts of Augustus’ reign was his reform of the grain supply. Rome depended on grain shipments from Africa and Egypt, and before Augustus, mismanagement and corruption often led to food shortages, riots, and unrest.

Augustus created a system of grain distribution that gave security to the urban poor. He established a reliable network to import, store, and distribute grain to thousands of citizens—first to a select number, then expanded to include more of the population. He appointed an official called the praefectus annonae to oversee the entire supply chain.

This was not charity—it was policy. By feeding the people, Augustus fed peace. He made sure that no Roman stomach stood empty, and in doing so, filled the city with loyalty.

Restoring the Family

More than buildings or bread, Augustus sought to restore what he saw as the moral fabric of Roman life. The civil wars had not only ruined the Republic—they had unraveled the virtues of family, faith, and duty.

Augustus passed family laws that encouraged marriage, childbirth, and fidelity. He penalized adultery and childlessness among the elite. He rewarded citizens who married well and produced children—especially those of noble blood, who could carry forward the strength of Rome.

He understood, as I later came to believe, that a strong empire begins in the home. Women were expected to be chaste and loyal, men to be honorable and responsible. It was an ideal—not always followed, often criticized—but one that shaped the culture for generations. It shaped me.

The Legacy I Inherited

By the time I stood at the side of Trajan, many of Augustus’ reforms had become woven into Roman life itself. Families honored his laws. Citizens walked his streets. The empire still reaped the benefits of the systems he built. I followed his example, in my own quiet way—supporting education, promoting moral conduct, and encouraging justice.

Augustus understood that true power did not lie in conquest alone, but in bringing order, security, and meaning to the lives of the people. That is what I tried to do during my time as empress.

Securing the East and the Kingdom of Judah – Told by Caesar

When I rose to power after the fall of Antony and Cleopatra, I inherited not only Rome’s victory but its burden. The East was vast, diverse, and delicate—an intricate web of ancient kingdoms, religions, and rivalries. And among these lands was Judea, with its fierce people, sacred temple, and long memory of foreign rule.

It was not a province I conquered by force. Judea came under Roman protection before me, during the days of Pompey and Julius Caesar. But under my rule, I brought order and structure. I turned a chaotic corner of the empire into a disciplined and profitable protectorate.

And I did this not by marching in with legions, but through careful alliance and calculated authority.

The Friend and King: Herod the Great

To rule Judea directly would have caused resistance. Its people were proud, bound by ancient law, and suspicious of foreign gods and governors. So I chose a different path: I allowed a king to rule there—Herod—a man both clever and cruel, loyal and ambitious.

Herod had once served Mark Antony, but after Actium, he came to me in Rome. Unlike others, he did not beg for pardon—he asked for the chance to prove his loyalty. I respected that. And so I allowed him to keep his throne. I called him "King of the Jews", a title Rome would recognize, but one bound to me, not to the gods or crowns of his past alliances.

Under Herod, Judea became stable. He rebuilt the Temple, expanded cities, and honored me with monuments, including a city he named Caesarea Maritima, in my honor. He governed with harshness, yes, but with efficiency. And as long as he served Roman order, I allowed him to rule.

Census and the Question of Taxation

But peace must serve the treasury as well as the sword. Judea, though governed by a client king, was still part of the empire’s machine. Rome needed to know what it ruled, and so I ordered a census—not only in Judea, but across many provinces and client territories.

This was no mere list of names. The census was the foundation of taxation, conscription, and legal governance. Every man, woman, and child, every household and trade—we counted them, so we could rule them.

In Judea, this census required tact. I worked through Herod and his administrators. They would register the people by family and tribal origins, in ways familiar to their customs, to avoid rebellion. But make no mistake—the purpose was Roman: to know how many lived in Judea, how much land they held, and how much tax they owed to Caesar.

This is the census remembered in later generations—for even obscure Judean families, traveling to their ancestral towns, were caught in its sweep.

After Herod: Division and Control

When Herod died in 4 BC, his kingdom fractured among his sons. The most capable, Herod Archelaus, took Judea—but his rule was brutal and unstable. When unrest grew, I removed him and sent a Roman prefect to govern directly. That is how Judea became a Roman province under the authority of the legate of Syria.

This was not a punishment, but a necessity. The people would not be ruled by weak kings. And so Rome stepped in. Governors such as Quirinius later oversaw further censuses and tax policies, always under my authority and guided by my imperial reforms.

The Judean Puzzle

I knew Judea would always be difficult—a land of prophets, rebels, and burning beliefs. But I also knew it must be held. It sat at a crossroads of trade and culture, between Egypt and Syria, Rome and Parthia.

I did not need to destroy its customs—I needed to ensure its taxes were paid, its cities calm, and its kings obedient. Through diplomacy, census, and administration, I did what countless generals had failed to do: I held Judea in peace.

The Emperor’s Judgment

In Judea, I placed my hand lightly—but firmly. Herod was my instrument. The census was my measure. The taxes were my reward. And through these, even Jerusalem bowed—not to my image in a temple, but to my name written into law, record, and decree.