Everybody had said it wouldn’t happen, but it had. Tiberius had actually taken ship, had left Capri in his Imperial trireme, had crossed the three miles of water to the mainland, sailed around to Ostia and from there to the Tiber, then up the river to Rome. Now the trireme lay at anchor within the very sight of the seven hills of Rome. Tiberius was coming home, at the age of seventy-seven. There had been an enormous commotion, of course. All the ships in the harbor at Ostia had rung their bells as Tiberius’ ship approached. Statues of Tiberius, crowned with the promised wreaths (only half of them were gold; the others were plain laurel), had been erected on both banks of the Tiber, and cheering crowds shouted Tiberius’ name as he sailed past. A long and rather ragged procession of Senators in their whitest togas—the lictors behind them carrying the bundles of rods, the fasces; the tribunes in the lead—had come miles out of the city to meet the trireme.
