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2,000 years ago, ancient Roman forces annihilated Jerusalem. Was its destruction inevitable?
The first of the Jewish-Roman wars was interrupted by one of the defining events of the 1st century, and gave birth to one of ancient Rome’s most powerful dynasties
In AD 70, Roman forces captured and destroyed Jerusalem after a brutal siege. The fall of the city was one of the defining events of the first century. It marked the crushing of a major revolt in Judea – a region roughly corresponding to parts of modern Israel and Palestine – and reshaped both Jewish and Roman history. It also cemented the power of a new ruling family in Rome, the Flavians, whose legitimacy depended in part on military success. But this outcome certainly wasn’t inevitable. The destruction of Jerusalem stemmed from a very specific chain of events; a convergence of political chaos at the heart of the Roman empire and deep internal divisions within the city of Jerusalem itself. Together, these forces turned what might have remained a contained regional rebellion into a prolonged and devastating war. Rome’s original strategy When rebellion broke out in Judea in AD 66, Rome didn’t immediately move to annihilate Jerusalem. Revolts weren’t too perturbing to the Roman emperors, who had dealt with regional uprisings before – it was, in many ways, the cost of having an empire. The task of restoring order was given to the general Vespasian, an experienced commander who had previously led campaigns in Britain and Germany. In the Roman system, such generals were expected to stabilise provinces and reassert imperial control, as well as achieving military victories. “Vespasian’s response is a strategy of going from place to place in the countryside, defeating town after town,” explains historian Barry Strauss, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. Some communities surrendered while those who didn’t were “massacred, or enslaved”. This was a standard Roman method of counterinsurgency. Rather than attacking the strongest position first – in this case Jerusalem, where the rebels had retreated to – the army would systematically secure the surrounding region to gain power in case of a siege and isolate the seat of the resistance. By advancing through towns and villages, Vespasian was “driving more and more refugees to Jerusalem and slowly squeezing the city, slowly squeezing its supplies,” Strauss says. Read more | The overshadowed ancient empire that rivalled Rome with maritime might and an iron fist This patience was a well-worn tactic. Ancient cities like Jerusalem depended heavily on surrounding agricultural land. By cutting Jerusalem off from that support network, Vespasian hoped to force a surrender without the need for a full siege, Strauss explains, because a siege “is going to be long, costly, expensive and bloody.” At this stage, there was still a realistic possibility that Jerusalem might submit without being destroyed. Politics intervenes Before that strategy could succeed, events far beyond Judea reshaped the course of the war. In AD 68, the emperor Nero – the last ruler of the Julio-Claudian dynasty – was overthrown and committed suicide. His death triggered a succession crisis known as the Year of the Four Emperors. Rome erupted into a full-scale civil war in which multiple Roman armies backed rival claimants to the throne. “A series of new emperors take the throne,” Strauss explains. First came Galba, then Otho, and then Vitellius. Each was supported by different military factions. But none held power securely. “So, all heck is breaking loose on the Roman scene,” Strauss says. For a general like Vespasian, this created a dilemma. His authority ultimately depended on whoever ruled in Rome – but it was no longer clear who that would be. Strauss explains that Vespasian’s approach was to say: “I think I’m going to call a halt to this war until I get new instructions from the new master of Rome, whoever he may be.” Read more | “Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures” So, Vespasian’s campaign in Judea paused, interrupting Roman momentum at a moment when the rebellion might still have been contained through pressure rather than destruction. A general becomes Roman emperor But this pause also created an unexpected opportunity for Vespasian. As the civil war intensified, Vespasian himself emerged as a contender for the imperial throne. His position was strengthened by support from Tiberius Julius Alexander, the governor of Egypt. Egypt was one of the most strategically important provinces in the empire. It controlled the grain supply that fed the city of Rome, as well as key military forces. When Alexander declared for Vespasian, it signalled that the general had both military backing and access to vital resources. “The fact that he goes over to Vespasian gives Vespasian the heft,” Strauss says. At this point, Judea became a secondary concern. “This entirely puts a halt to the business of repressing the revolt in little Judea.” Compared to the struggle for control of the entire empire, this revolt was relatively minor. “Vespasian’s eyes are now on the big prize: Rome,” says Strauss. Vespasian ultimately won the civil war and became emperor in AD 69, establishing the Flavian dynasty. This marked a significant shift in Roman politics. Unlike earlier emperors, Vespasian did not come from the traditional aristocratic elite. So, for propagandistic purposes, he needed to prove that he was just as capable (if not more so) than his predecessors. His military success was a way to project that image. Read more | Are you healthier than a Roman? These ancient secrets for longevity are still shockingly relevant So, in a new position of power, Vespasian returned to the unfinished war in Judea. But he didn’t lead the campaign himself. “Once he becomes emperor, Vespasian gives the command to his son Titus,” Strauss explains. Titus had already been involved in earlier stages of the campaign and was an experienced commander in his own right. He was supported by Tiberius Julius Alexander, who brought both administrative experience and military expertise. Together, they assembled a large and well-organised force. This time, the objective was to achieve a decisive victory, rather than to assert gradual pressure. Jerusalem divided While Rome reorganised, conditions inside Jerusalem worsened dramatically. The city was, in theory, well equipped to withstand a siege. It had strong defensive walls and access to water through internal sources such as cisterns and springs. Its weakness came from the rebels themselves. “The rebels have no intention of surrendering,” Strauss explains. They believed they could resist Roman power. “That is a very dangerous position, and irresponsible.” At the same time, different factions within the city were engaged in violent conflict with each other. “They fought and killed each other,” Strauss says, reflecting deeper political and religious disagreements about how to respond to Rome – whether to resist, negotiate or surrender. “They seem to be as interested in internecine warfare as in fighting the Roman enemy.” The most damaging consequence of this infighting, Strauss explains, was that “they burnt the grain supplies in the city,” – their own source of food. This was catastrophic. Jerusalem had previously stored enough grain to survive for years. By destroying those reserves, the defenders removed their greatest advantage. Caesar: Death of a Dictator Member exclusive | On the Ides of March 44 BC, the most famous Roman in history was murdered. Julius Caesar's assassination transformed Rome forever, and the image of his bloody toga has haunted monarchs and tyrants ever since. Listen to all episodes now The siege of AD 70 In AD 70, Titus’s forces “get down to the business of laying siege to the city,” Strauss says. This time, with Rome’s political instability now resolved, there would be no reprieve for the rebels holed up in Jerusalem. And it was no longer the same city Vespasian had once hoped to pressure into surrender. It was divided, weakened and running out of food. The siege that followed was brutal. Roman forces gradually breached the city’s defences, fighting their way inward. The culmination came with the destruction of the Second Temple – the religious centre of Jewish life. This was a humiliation: a profound religious and cultural rupture whose consequences would shape Jewish history for centuries. But was the fall of Jerusalem inevitable? On the one hand, this was an instance where the weight of a mighty empire was ready to be leveraged against a small population isolated in a single city. Rome certainly had the power to expedite the siege. However, Vespasian’s original plan aimed to avoid a costly siege. That plan was interrupted by a political crisis in Rome. That interruption gave time for divisions within Jerusalem to deepen and for critical resources to be destroyed. It was only due to this contingent sequence of events that Titus ended up at Jerusalem’s walls. As much as the destruction of the city was the result of Roman strength, it was also the product of a collision of timing, political ambition and internal conflict. James Osborne was speaking to Barry Strauss on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
The Anglo-Saxons were terrified of Vikings. But were they really so different?
They might have fought as enemies in the 9th century, but the Vikings and Anglo-Saxons shared common languages and deep cultural roots
Viking aggression against Anglo-Saxon England escalated dramatically in the 9th century, with the arrival of the Great Heathen Army. The Norse invaders were portrayed in contemporary chronicles as terrifying outsiders; they were fierce raiders who were violent, alien and, ultimately, incomprehensible. But were the differences between the Vikings and Anglo-Saxons really so stark? Beneath the violence between these two peoples were many similarities, found in a rich layer of shared history. Shared origins across the North Sea One reason for these similarities is simple: the Anglo-Saxons themselves had once come from the same broad region as the Vikings. Following the collapse of Roman rule in Britain in the 5th century, groups from what is now Denmark, northern Germany and the Low Countries migrated across the North Sea and settled in England. Read more | The fall of Roman Britain: how life changed for Britons after the empire These groups – including Angles, Saxons and Jutes – filled the post-Roman vacuum and established the foundations of what would become Anglo-Saxon England, bringing with them languages, customs and social structures rooted in Europe’s northern lands. “From the Anglo-Saxon perspective, they are very aware of their origins in what is now Denmark and the northern coastline of continental Europe,” explains historian Eleanor Barraclough, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast about this 9th century wave of Viking invasion. “So those connections are still there.” Genealogies of Anglo-Saxon kings often traced their ancestry back to continental or even mythological Germanic figures, reinforcing this sense of shared heritage. Could they understand each other? Perhaps the clearest sign of this shared heritage was found in language. Old English (spoken by the Anglo-Saxons) and Old Norse (spoken by many Vikings) were both part of the Germanic language family. “You just have to look at the languages,” Barraclough explains. “Although they are distinct Germanic languages, they’re still very much both Germanic languages.” This meant communication, while not seamless, was certainly possible: “It would be a case of communicating with some grunts, some hand gestures, and some pointing,” she says, “but basically you would be able to understand each other to a certain degree.” Many everyday words would have sounded similar, making partial understanding possible even without formal translation. These were related languages with an overlapping vocabulary and structure. A shared cultural world Language was only one part of a broader cultural connection. An example of that shared culture is the famous Old English poem Beowulf. Beowulf is a cornerstone of Anglo-Saxon literature, written in Old English and preserved in an English manuscript. But its setting hints at non-English origins. “The first lines are: “Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,” Barraclough explains. “It’s Old English, [but] it’s talking about a Danish context.” The poem is set in Scandinavia – among the ‘Spear-Danes’ (the 'Gardena') and in regions corresponding to modern Denmark and Sweden. This suggests that Anglo-Saxon audiences were deeply familiar with, and interested in, stories rooted in the Scandinavian world. Read more | Beowulf: The Anglo-Saxons' action hero Referring to the oral tradition that the Beowulf poem might have been based on, Barraclough says “it certainly seems to be pre–the Great Heathen Army arriving,” indicating that these cultural links existed before the Viking invasions. The content of the poem itself also reflects a shared culture, with similar values around kingship, loyalty, warfare and honour that were recognised across northern Europe. And archaeology reinforces this picture. The famous helmet from the Sutton Hoo burial – often associated with the Anglo-Saxon king Raedwald – has echoes of Viking culture. “That helmet has its nearest parallels in Sweden and in Scandinavia more generally,” Barraclough says. Such objects point to a shared material culture spanning the North Sea. Religion: different, but related Religion offers another window into both similarity and difference. By the time of the Viking invasions, Anglo-Saxon England was largely Christian. Churches, monasteries and religious institutions – often the targets for Viking attacks – were central to political and cultural life. Many Vikings, by contrast, were still practising forms of pre-Christian religion. Read more | Christians and pagans in Norse society: the real religious rifts between Vikings Even here, though, there were shared roots. “We have relatively little that we can piece together about pre-Christian religion in Anglo-Saxon culture,” Barraclough says. But, she says, surviving evidence suggests “similarities in the types of gods: Woden and Odin, for example.” Woden, the Anglo-Saxon pagan deity, and Odin, the Norse god, likely stem from a shared Proto-Germanic religious tradition, adapted and developed in different regions over time. What made them different? Despite these shared foundations, important differences between the Anglo-Saxons and Vikings remained. Religion was one of the most significant. For the now-Christian Anglo-Saxons, Viking paganism was threatening and alien, particularly when associated with violent raids on monasteries and churches. Political organisation also differed. Anglo-Saxon England was divided into kingdoms with established structures of governance, law and landholding. Viking forces, especially in the early phases of the Great Heathen Army, instead operated as mobile coalitions of warbands, with more flexible and decentralised leadership. These contrasting systems meant that Anglo-Saxon rulers were defending fixed territories, while Viking groups could move rapidly, regroup and adapt their strategies. So how similar were the Vikings and Anglo-Saxons? They were distinct peoples, with different political systems and, by the 9th century, different dominant religions. But they were also deeply connected. They spoke related languages, shared cultural traditions, traded across the same seas and traced their origins to overlapping regions of northern Europe. Eleanor Barraclough was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
How Alfred the Great saved the Anglo-Saxons from the Vikings
Dr Eleanor Barraclough tells the story of Alfred the Great's journey from his lowest ebb, to his ascent to reclaim his throne
As the Viking Great Heathen Army advanced to the borders of Wessex, the conquest of Anglo-Saxon England appeared all but complete. In the third episode of this four-part series on the Viking invasion of Anglo-Saxon England in the latter half of the ninth century, James Osborne is joined by historian Dr Eleanor Barraclough to examine how Alfred the Great rose from the cusp of defeat, to a stunning military victory at the battle of Edington. Want to know more about the struggle between Alfred and the Vikings? James Osborne rounds up essential reading from the HistoryExtra archive that explores this pivotal moment in Viking and Anglo-Saxon history – including insights into Viking culture, the everyday experience of Anglo-Saxon communities, Alfred’s use of religion and learning as tools of political renewal, and the long legacy of the Danelaw on English identity and culture. Go beyond the podcast
The Bay of Pigs Invasion: was this CIA fiasco JFK's worst embarrassment?
The botched Bay of Pigs invasion stands as one of several US failings in the 1960s as the Cold War rolled on. Why was it such a disaster?
Unfolding over three chaotic days in April 1961, the Bay of Pigs Invasion would come to symbolise the perils of Cold War brinkmanship and growing American hubris. It was the culmination of flawed assumptions, hasty decision-making, and a deep underestimation of a revolutionary regime’s resolve. But it was also a moment that transformed geopolitics in the western hemisphere. While often remembered as a military failure, the Bay of Pigs was also a diplomatic shock that reshaped US strategy, deepened Soviet ties with Cuba and set the stage for the Cuban Missile Crisis just one year later. What happened with the Bay of Pigs is a story inseparable from its Cold War context, the revolutionary fever of 1950s Cuba, the clandestine corridors of CIA planning rooms, and the charged ideological landscape of early 1960s international politics. What was the Bay of Pigs fiasco? The Bay of Pigs invasion was a failed CIA-backed operation in April 1961, in which Cuban exiles, backed by the US, attempted to overthrow Fidel Castro’s government. But the Cuban people failed to rise up to support invasion. Castro quickly repelled the assault, strengthening his grip on the island and pushing Cuba closer into an alliance with the communist Soviet Union. How powerful was Fidel Castro before the Bay of Pigs invasion? Ahead of Fidel Castro’s ascent to power, Cuba – an island to the south of Florida – in the 1950s was a paradox. Beneath a façade of prosperity in Havana’s casinos and nightclubs were vast inequalities. The island was effectively a neo-colonial economy: heavily reliant on sugar exports and deeply enmeshed in US corporate interests. American companies controlled around 70 per cent of Cuba’s arable land, as well as its electricity and telephone systems. The regime of Cuban politician Fulgencio Batista, a military strongman who had seized power in a 1952 coup, was tolerated (if not outright endorsed) by those in power in Washington, DC. However, his repressive policies and close ties to organised crime alienated many Cubans, paving the way for armed resistance. One such revolutionary was Castro, a young lawyer from eastern Cuba, who launched an audacious, if unsuccessful, attack on the Moncada Barracks in Santiago de Cuba in 1953. Read more | Did the Cold War ever really end? After fleeing to Mexico, Castro regrouped and restricted his guerrilla forces with figures such as the Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara. With this force, Castro returned to Cuba in 1956. Over two years, his ragtag force conducted a rural insurgency in the island’s southeastern Sierra Maestra mountains. By January 1959, mounting pressure from Castro’s insurgents and growing discontent in Cuba’s population forced Batista into exile, and Castro entered Havana to a wave of public support. Initially, Castro’s ideology was ambiguous. He denied being a communist, but his policies soon demonstrated a radical economic agenda with the nationalisation of foreign assets and land redistribution. By mid-1960, Cuba had signed trade agreements with the Soviet Union and accepted Soviet oil – a clear signal that it was slipping away from the US and into the orbit of the Eastern Bloc. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-3379132-b467a0b-e1769431787106.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Members of Fidel Castro’s militia stand guard in Cuba’s Escambray Mountains during the Bay of Pigs invasion of April 1961. As US-backed exile forces landed on the coast, local militia units were mobilised across the island, helping to crush the invasion and secure a defining victory for Castro’s revolutionary government." title="Castro Militia" /> What was the USA’s reaction to Castro? The formation of Brigade 2506 To American policymakers steeped in Cold War orthodoxy, the leftward drift of Cuba (so close to US soil) under the rule of Castro was intolerable. US President Dwight D Eisenhower, in the last year of his second term, authorised a plan in March 1960 to organise, train and equip Cuban exiles to serve as the spearhead for an anti-Castro rebellion. Read more | How should history remember Fidel Castro? The operation was run by the CIA’s Directorate of Plans, specifically under Richard Bissell, a key architect of US covert operations. The exiles were organised into a paramilitary unit known as Brigade 2506, named after the serial number of a fallen recruit. Training camps were established in Guatemala and later Nicaragua, both ruled by right-wing, US-friendly governments. The exiles received training in guerilla tactics, amphibious landings, and demolition techniques. The success of the US-backed exiles rested on the assumption that the Cuban population would rise against Castro once the invasion began – an underestimation that would prove disastrous. The CIA also believed that an initial seizure of territory would prompt international recognition of a ‘Free Cuba’ government-in-exile, which would then appeal for US military support. Despite being a clandestine operation, the plan was hardly a well-kept secret. Rumours of impending invasion circulated openly in Latin American newspapers and among intelligence communities worldwide. The Cuban Missile Crisis: World on the Brink Member exclusive | In this HistoryExtra podcast series, we explore the roots of the Cold War standoff and meet the key players in the confrontation. We track the pivotal 13 days at its centre, and the Cold War alliances that saw diplomatic tensions escalate to breaking point Listen to all episodes now JKF’s reaction to the Bay of Pigs John F Kennedy was briefed on the invasion plan ahead of his inauguration in 1961. Though doubtful about the operation's viability, records show that Kennedy felt boxed in: to cancel the mission would be politically damaging, particularly during his first 100 days. His administration, still lacking a clear foreign policy doctrine, feared appearing weak on communism – especially as the Soviet Union gained influence in the western hemisphere. Read more | Who was behind JFK’s assassination? The real history that challenges the conspiracy To minimise the risk of open US involvement, Kennedy cancelled a second round of airstrikes that were intended to cripple the Cuban air force. This decision, made just hours before the Bay of Pigs invasion, would prove critical in allowing Castro’s forces to regroup and defend against the landing. The Bay of Pigs Invasion begins In the early hours of 17 April 1961, Brigade 2506 landed at Playa Girón and Playa Larga, on the swampy southern coast of Cuba in the Bay of Pigs. The choice of location was strategic: it was isolated, near a small airstrip, and within reach of the Escambray Mountains, where anti-Castro insurgents were believed to be hiding. But the operation was beset by logistical failures almost immediately. Landing craft ran aground on coral reefs, misidentified on CIA maps as seaweed. Ammunition and communications equipment were lost in the surf. Cuban forces, alerted by earlier airstrikes and prepared for invasion, responded swiftly with tanks, artillery, and air power. Castro himself directed elements of the response from Havana. Contrary to CIA expectations, no local uprising occurred in support of Brigade 2506. Most Cubans, if not ideologically committed to Castro, were deeply nationalist and viewed the exiles as US puppets. By 19 April, after intense fighting and mounting casualties, the exiles surrendered. In total, more than 100 were killed, and more than 1,100 were captured. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-514901336-963c2f8-e1769431914311.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="President John F Kennedy addresses reporters at a press conference following the failed Bay of Pigs invasion in April 1961. The appearance marked a rare public admission of responsibility, as Kennedy faced the political fallout from one of the most damaging episodes of his presidency." title="President Kennedy at News Conference" /> Why was the Bay of Pigs Invasion a political disaster? The political fallout was swift and severe, denting JFK’s popularity and serving as a propaganda coup for Fidel Castro. Kennedy, forced to admit US involvement, accepted full responsibility, stating in a press conference staged two days after the end of fighting that in regard to the events that had unfolded, “I am the responsible officer of the government.” Meanwhile, voices within Congress began to question the CIA’s unchecked influence. Internationally, Castro was able to cast himself as David defeating an American Goliath. He declared Cuba a socialist state shortly after the invasion and formally aligned the island with the Soviet Union. In December 1961, Castro publicly confirmed his long-denied communist credentials. In the Kremlin, Nikita Khrushchev saw the failed invasion as evidence of rampant US aggression, and a green light to deepen Soviet support for Cuba. This directly influenced the decision to install nuclear missiles on the island in 1962, leading to the Cuban Missile Crisis, a 13-day standoff that arguably brought the world closer to nuclear war than ever before. Read more | "If the Americans had bombed Cuba in 1962, escalation would have been almost inevitable" The Bay of Pigs’ legacy The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a case study in flawed intelligence, political overconfidence and the dangers of proxy warfare. For historians, the Bay of Pigs fiasco remains a defining moment in Cold War history, US-Latin American relations, and the interplay between intelligence and policy. It marked a turning point in US foreign policy, prompting the creation of more formalised National Security Council decision-making processes and a push for better coordination between civilian and military agencies. For Kennedy, many see the lessons learned in the Bay of Pigs as shaping his later cautious but firm approach during the Missile Crisis. For the CIA, the fiasco prompted internal reviews but did not significantly restrain its activities abroad. Covert actions would continue in Vietnam, Chile, Angola, and beyond. In Cuba, the failed invasion justified decades of authoritarian consolidation, repression of dissent and a siege mentality that helped keep Castro in power until he formally stepped down in 2008. More from us HistoryExtra members can explore more Cold War history with exclusive content from our archives What brought a thaw in the Cold War? Cold War summits: how USA & USSR leaders worked to end the conflict Project Azorian: the Cold War CIA mission to snatch Soviet nuclear sub K-129 from the sea floor The Space Race: The Cold War rivalry that put humans on the Moon Not a HistoryExtra member? Explore our latest membership offers
This surprising medieval medical belief still shapes how we think about wellness
As familiar notions suggest, medieval medicine was influenced by herbs and humours. But these factors were part of a broader holistic system in which emotion and lifestyle were also considered essential to staying healthy
Judged against the standards of modern medicine, the Middle Ages can seem like a time of ignorance; an era when healthcare was based on crude remedies and superstitions. In reality, medieval healthcare was built on a broad – but, in its own way, sophisticated – understanding of how the body worked that placed emphasis on a combination of physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing. Much of this thinking drew on ancient Greek and Roman medical traditions, particularly those associated with Hippocrates and Galen, whose works were preserved and studied throughout the medieval period. But how did the religion of the Middle Ages factor into this understanding? Indeed, as historian Katherine Harvey explains on the HistoryExtra podcast, many medieval thinkers treated religion and medicine as two parts of one system. Religion and medicine in the medieval healthcare system “I think it’s really important that although we see religion and medicine as two different things, they didn’t,” explains Katherine Harvey. “It was very much two overlapping ways of understanding the world and understanding your body.” Religious practice shaped attitudes towards behaviour – from diet and fasting to sexual intimacy and daily routines – all of which were understood to have direct consequences for physical health. For example, fasting wasn’t only a spiritual discipline, but also believed to regulate digestion and bodily balance, while sexual restraint was associated with notions of conserving vital bodily energies. Therefore, Harvey says, “it was quite usual for a physician to prescribe both medical and spiritual remedies; to give you a bottle of medicine, but also a charm to use.” Read more | Kill or cure? 10 medieval medical practices and their effectiveness In the later Middle Ages, there was also “a preoccupation with the idea that the body is God’s creation,” Harvey explains. And this had important implications. This imbued maintenance of the body with a moral responsibility, too. “You’ve got a spiritual duty to look after it,” Harvey says, “as well as a selfish one to try and keep yourself healthy.” Evidently then, everyday religious practices were deemed to have medical significance. “They see things like going to church, confessing, or having religious images in your house as things that are good for your soul,” Harvey explains. “They’re good for you spiritually, but they’re also good for your mental health, and therefore your physical health. It all ties up.” Pilgrimage, too, could be understood in this way. It was both a spiritual journey, and a means of restoring health through movement. The medieval mind–body connection Central to medieval medicine was the idea that the body and mind were deeply interconnected; that “your physical, spiritual, and mental health was intertwined,” Harvey says. While this differs from modern scientific frameworks (particularly in its emphasis on the impact of religious belief on physical health) the underlying principles are distinctly recognisable. “There’s a lot of evidence that they worried about a lot of the same things that we do,” Harvey notes. In particular, medieval thinkers believed that emotional states could directly influence physical health – a principle that has become a key tenet of 21st-century wellness. “They worried about things like anger management,” Harvey explains. Anger was believed to heat and dry the body, disrupting its balance and potentially leading to illness. This concern was rooted in humoral theory, which held that the body contained four humours – blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. The balance of these could be disrupted by emotional as well as physical factors. Harvey points, for example, to Ælred of Rievaulx, an English Cistercian monk and writer who complained that the pressures of his role (including disrupted sleep and constant responsibility) were contributing to his illness. “He says that he’s ‘going to die’ if he doesn’t stop doing his job,” she says – a feeling that might be familiar to anyone with corporate stresses today. “They talk a lot about melancholy. They worry about keeping their minds active in old age,” Harvey says. The Black Death Member exclusive | Listen to our six-part podcast series on how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages Listen to all episodes now Joy as medieval medicine If negative emotions could harm the body, the belief was also that positive ones could protect it. “Negative emotions shorten life, whereas joy ‘moistens’ the body,” Harvey explains. This led to a surprisingly familiar set of recommendations. “They encourage people to listen to music, to spend time with their friends, to wear nice clothes, read books – all the things that we still like doing.” Read more | What was life like in a medieval town? A historical A-Z However, moderation remained important. It was thought that “you can die of too much joy,” Harvey notes. But in general, cultivating happiness was seen as a form of preventative medicine. “Joy, being happy, is very much good for your health, and the things that make you happy are good for you.” Courtly culture, festivals and communal gatherings all played a role in sustaining this sense of joy, reinforcing the idea that emotional wellbeing was socially – as well as individually – maintained. Managing fear in a time of crisis These ideas became especially significant during periods of widespread crisis, such as during the Black Death of the 14th century. Specifically, medieval authorities became concerned about the psychological effects of constant exposure to grief. “They get very worried that the world is very depressing,” Harvey says. The fear was that this overwhelmingly negative emotional climate could make people more vulnerable to illness. In response, some communities took striking measures. “There are places where they actually ban mourning garb or funeral bells so as not to frighten people too much.” While medieval medicine certainly didn’t have access to modern scientific knowledge, it was far from simplistic. It recognised that health depended on a complex interplay of a person’s physical condition, emotional state, lifestyle habits, and spiritual wellbeing. And while the underlying explanation for this was framed in religious and humoral terms, its crucial insight was that the way we live, think and feel has a profound impact on our health – a centuries-old principle that still chimes with how we try to live today. Katherine Harvey was speaking to Charlotte Vosper on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Emily Lethbridge traces the story of Aud the Deep-Minded, one of Iceland's most prominent – and fascinating – early Norse settlers
It was the Vikings of northern Europe who first settled the harsh landscapes of Iceland in the ninth century. Most of the figures leading this movement were men – powerful chieftains who claimed vast swathes of land and parcelled it out to their followers. But among these pioneers was Aud the Deep-Minded: a woman who subverted the expectations of the Viking world. In this episode, Emily Lethbridge speaks to James Osborne about Aud's incredible life and legacy.
Dr Eleanor Barraclough follows the Great Heathen Army on its rampage across Anglo-Saxon England
As the Viking Great Heathen Army refused to leave Anglo-Saxon England, the pressure mounted on the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to respond, placing the future of the land in the hands of Alfred the Great. In this second episode of our four-part HistoryExtra podcast series on the Viking invasion of ninth-century England, James Osborne and historian Dr Eleanor Barraclough explore the regions overrun by Viking forces and the rise of Alfred the Great amid the collapse of Anglo-Saxon resistance. Want to know more about the struggle between Alfred and the Vikings? James Osborne rounds up essential reading from the HistoryExtra archive that explores this pivotal moment in Viking and Anglo-Saxon history – including insights into Viking culture, the everyday experience of Anglo-Saxon communities, Alfred’s use of religion and learning as tools of political renewal, and the long legacy of the Danelaw on English identity and culture. Go beyond the podcast
The Huns terrorised Rome's frontiers – but wanted to keep the ancient empire alive
Feared as savage invaders, the Huns posed a serious threat to Rome – but their goal wasn’t conquest, or Roman annihilation
To the Romans of the late 4th and 5th centuries AD, the threat posed by the Huns was akin to a nightmare made real. They were lightning fast, brutally violent, and as culturally unfamiliar as any people the Romans had ever encountered. They seemed to emerge suddenly from beyond the empire’s frontiers, bringing with them destruction and fear. Roman writers described them in vivid, unsettling terms, presenting them as the ultimate barbarians. The arrival of the Huns on the frontier of the Roman empire coincided with a period historians often describe as the ‘Migration Period’ – a time of large-scale population movements across Europe, in which multiple groups were displaced and resettled, or otherwise pushed into Roman territory. Yet for all the alarm they caused, the Huns didn’t want to destroy the Roman empire. They wanted to exploit it. The reasons why reveal as much about Rome’s internal condition, as about the Huns themselves. Who were the Huns? The Huns were part of a broader pattern of migration and movement across Eurasia in late antiquity. “They’re one of a series of non-Roman groups migrating, we assume, from Eastern Asia, possibly away from the Chinese Empire,” explains archaeologist Miles Russell, while discussing the life of Atilla the Hun on the HistoryExtra podcast. Their precise origins remain debated, but many historians link them to steppe nomadic traditions that stretched across Central Asia, where highly mobile horse-based societies had long dominated. Unlike settled agricultural societies based around static farming and protected settlements, they were very itinerant. Listen now | From the Mongols to the Huns: the nomads who dominated Eurasia “They fight predominantly on horseback,” Russell says. This fighting style was a key factor in their military effectiveness. Their speed and flexibility made them difficult for Roman forces, accustomed to more structured warfare, to counter. Hunnic warriors were particularly known for their use of composite bows, which could be fired accurately from horseback, allowing them to attack at range and retreat before heavier infantry could respond. Importantly, however, Russell makes clear that the term ‘Huns’ doesn’t describe a single, uniform people. “When we’re talking about the Hunnic empire, it’s a bit like talking about the Roman empire,” he explains. “Not everyone is from Rome; in the Hunnic Empire, not everyone is a Hun.” Instead, the Huns functioned as a dominant elite – “the militaristic aristocratic force” – leading and coordinating a wider coalition of groups. These included well-known names such as the Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Vandals and Burgundians. “These are different barbarian groups outside the Roman world,” Russell notes, “most from Europe or East Asia.” A reputation built on fear Roman knowledge of the Huns was limited and filtered through fear. “The Romans are simultaneously terrified of the Huns, and they’re also really interested in them,” Russell says. Contemporary accounts describe their appearance and fighting style in detail but offer little reliable information about their origins or history. And, because “the Huns aren’t writing anything down themselves”, Roman observers were left to fill in the gaps. In Roman literature, the Huns are portrayed as the antithesis of civilisation – people who didn’t farm, didn’t cook food in conventional ways, and lived in close physical proximity to their horses. “They describe the Huns as cooking food by sticking it under their buttocks, heating it between rider and horse,” Russell says. They are also depicted as foraging for roots for their food, and living without settled communities. Read more | Meet the people the ancient Romans and Greeks desperately tried to hide Much of this imagery comes from writers such as Ammianus Marcellinus, whose accounts emphasised the difference and danger of the Huns, often exaggerating unfamiliar practices to reinforce notions of Roman cultural superiority. Such claims are unlikely to be accurate. But they served a propagandistic purpose. “To the Romans, the Huns represent the ultimate barbarian; the ultimate savage,” Russell explains. These portrayals reinforced a long-standing Roman worldview that divided humanity into degrees of civilisation, with Rome at the centre and ‘savagery’ at the furthest extreme. A coalition of peoples A major strength of the Huns lay in their ability to mobilise and coordinate other groups beyond Rome’s borders. “They can galvanise lots of different barbarian groups together into an overwhelming military force,” Russell says. This coalition approach made them particularly dangerous. Rather than a single army, they could draw on a wide network of allied or subordinate groups, adapting their forces as circumstances required. At the same time, they stood apart from many of those groups culturally and politically. “Most of the other barbarians … want to be Roman,” Russell explains. Groups such as the Visigoths and Ostrogoths often sought integration into the Roman world, including conversion to Christianity. “The Huns don’t,” he says. “They make it clear from the beginning that they don’t want to be part of the Roman Empire.” For many Germanic groups, entry into the Roman world meant land, status and wealth. But for the Huns, power came instead from exploiting those ideas. Rome divided against itself By the time the Huns appeared on the Roman frontier in the late 4th century, the empire itself was undergoing significant internal change. “We mustn’t think of Rome at this stage as one empire, or even two halves of the same empire,” Russell says. “They are becoming two separate empires.” This division had been formalised in 395 after the death of Emperor Theodosius I, when the empire was split between his sons into eastern and western administrations. Read more | Long before the ancient Roman empire, a rival superpower looked set for supremacy The eastern half, centred on Constantinople – a city founded in the 4th century and often described as “New Rome” – remained economically vibrant and politically stable. “It’s successful, with strong trade links, a dynamic and exciting city,” Russell explains. The western half, by contrast, was struggling. “Rome in the west is more of a cultural backwater at this stage,” he says. Political authority was weakening, administrative systems were faltering, and emperors increasingly ruled from Ravenna in northern Italy rather than from Rome itself. “Its military is collapsing,” Russell notes. At the same time, various non-Roman groups had already settled within its borders. These included federate groups who were allowed to settle within the empire in exchange for military service – a system that increasingly blurred the line between Roman and non-Roman power. Crucially, the two halves of the empire were not acting in concert. “East and west are not joining forces; they are competing against one another,” Russell explains. At times, the two halves even came into conflict with each other. Roman Britain | A short course from HistoryExtra Academy Member exclusive | In this four-week course, discover everything you need to know about Roman Britain, guided by Rob Collins, professor of frontier archaeology at Newcastle University. Explore the course now The Huns’ strategy It was this fragmented, weakened Roman context that the Huns sought to exploit. The Romans first became aware of the Huns indirectly, in the 370s AD, when other groups began fleeing westwards. This movement would eventually lead to major events such as the Gothic War and the battle of Adrianople in 378. But the Huns themselves soon followed. “The first thing they do is send armies into the Eastern Empire, burning cities and saying, ‘give us money and we’ll go away,’” Russell explains. It was a strategy of intimidation and extraction: not an attempt to replace Roman authority. “They’d rather not destroy the Romans completely,” Russell says, “because they’re a useful group to blackmail and extort money from.” Roman emperors often responded by paying large sums in tribute, effectively buying temporary peace. So, a functioning Roman state – wealthy and, at this moment, vulnerable – was far more valuable to the Huns than a conquered and destabilised territory. Why Rome struggled to respond In theory, Rome possessed the resources to respond effectively to such threats. In practice, it struggled. “If Rome had been unified under a single command, if it had a decent military … it might have responded,” Russell suggests. But those conditions didn’t exist. Civil wars, political rivalries and internal fragmentation had weakened the empire’s military capacity. The division between east and west further complicated any coordinated response. A unified empire with a strong military and coherent leadership might have resisted them more effectively. Instead, the Huns encountered a declining Rome. “It can’t deal with the Huns at any level,” Russell says. This inability to respond decisively allowed the Huns to continue their strategy of pressure and negotiation, extracting wealth while avoiding the risks associated with full-scale conquest. This continuous aggression would, eventually, play a crucial role in the Western Roman empire’s slow collapse. Miles Russell was speaking to Spencer Mizen on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
In this four-part HistoryExtra podcast series, Viking expert Dr Eleanor Barraclough traces the struggle between Alfred and the Vikings
In this four-part podcast series, James Osborne is joined by Viking expert Dr Eleanor Barraclough to trace the struggle between Alfred and the Vikings, from the arrival of the Great Heathen Army in 865 to the decisive battle of Edington and its far-reaching aftermath. Across the series, they explore the story from both sides: the world of the Viking army and the realities of life within it, the collapse of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, Alfred’s flight into the marshes, and the uneasy peace that subsequently reshaped England.
Meet the mysterious leaders of the Vikings’ most fearsome army
The Great Heathen Army wasn’t a single unified force, but rather a shifting coalition of warbands whose multi-layered leadership helped it outmanoeuvre the Anglo-Saxons
When the Great Heathen Army arrived in England in the mid-9th century, it marked a turning point in the history of Viking activity in the British Isles. Earlier Viking raids – such as the attack on the monastery at Lindisfarne in 793 – had been fast, opportunistic strikes. Viking aggression had continued like this for decades: plundering coastal regions for wealth, treasure, and people to enslave. Indeed, the Anglo-Saxons had grown accustomed to this style of attack from their Norse cousins from across the sea. That changed in the year 865, with the arrival of the Great Heathen Army. From then onwards, this force campaigned across Anglo-Saxon England, capturing kingdoms, overthrowing rulers and establishing long-term settlements. At the time, England didn’t even exist: Britain was a patchwork of rival states – including Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia and Wessex – often competing with one another as much as resisting external threats. This political fragmentation made coordinated defence difficult. The Great Heathen Army was able to make much headway: plundering, pillaging and – crucially – taking formerly Anglo-Saxon land, rather than heading back to Scandinavia. But while the label ‘Great Heathen Army’ captures two essential facts about this force of Viking invaders – its size, and its paganism – it might otherwise be misleading. Rather than a unified force under a single commander, the Great Heathen Army was a shifting alliance of warbands drawn together for a shared purpose but operating with considerable independence. It was a force with many leaders – not one. How big was the Great Heathen Army? Contemporary sources, such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, offer only limited detail as to the size of the Great Heathen Army. Modern historians have attempted to reconstruct its scale using a combination of textual and archaeological evidence. “Some historians have thought it’s around a hundred ships,” explains Dr Eleanor Barraclough, an expert on the history of the Viking Age, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. A hundred ships, she says, could translate to “two or three thousand armed warriors.” By later medieval standards, that might not seem overwhelming. But in the context of 9th-century warfare, it represented a substantial and highly mobile force – especially one capable of moving quickly along rivers and coastlines by use of its ships. These boats – the infamous Viking longships – were shallow-drafted vessels that could travel both across open sea and far inland via river systems, allowing Viking forces to strike deep into territory with little warning. Where did these Vikings come from? While many members of the Great Heathen Army did originate from regions such as Denmark and Norway, Barraclough explains that “they’re not only coming across from Scandinavia, although lots of them certainly are.” By the mid-9th century, she says, Viking raiding, trading and settlement had created networks that extended well beyond Scandinavia itself. Viking groups had established bases in Ireland, particularly at Dublin, and were active along the coasts of Francia (modern France), the Low Countries and even as far as the Iberian Peninsula. These networks allowed people, goods and information to circulate widely. “We have to remember that this doesn’t come out of nowhere,” Barraclough explains. There had already been “a history of these protracted raids on the continent” and along the coasts of the British Isles. “So it’s quite possible that some of the people who are coming over are also coming, for example, from the Low Countries, from what we would call northern France, like Francia,” she notes. The Great Heathen Army, then, was not just Scandinavian. It was a product of a wider Viking world, drawing in fighters from multiple regions connected by mobility and shared experience. Leadership at sea In such a diverse group of warbands, how would leadership have functioned? To answer that question, Barraclough points toward the smallest unit of fighters: the ship. “There’ll be a leader on each of those ships,” she says. “We see that from ship burials,” Barraclough notes, citing the Salme ship burials in Estonia from around the year 750. These burials, associated with a group that had travelled from Sweden, reveal distinctions in status among those buried. “You can tell who the leader is because of how he’s buried, the weapons he’s buried with,” she explains. In one case, the presence of a gaming piece from the board game Hnefatafl placed in the mouth of the deceased may have symbolised command or authority. Scaling up from individual ships to an army composed of many warbands introduces more complexity. Nevertheless, “when you’re dealing with multiple warbands, you have to have some overall leadership,” Barraclough says. Read more | Reading the runes: what we can learn about everyday life in the Viking Age The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and later traditions provide names for some of these leaders. Among the most prominent are Ivar the Boneless, Halfdan Ragnarsson, and Björn Ironside . “Tradition says that these leaders are the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok,” Barraclough explains – a semi-legendary Viking figure whose historical existence remains debated. Guthrum, who would later become king in parts of England after converting to Christianity, was another key leader in the later stages of the conflict. “So, there are identified leaders,” Barraclough says. “But each ship would also have had its own leader. It’s complicated.” This layered structure meant that leadership was simultaneously centralised and decentralised. One way to think about it is that the Great Heathen Army was led by many generals, with many lieutenants, but no overall commander-in-chief. A flexible Viking war machine This system of overlapping leadership had practical advantages. “From the Viking point of view, it works well,” Barraclough explains, “because it means they can be more reactive and get ahead of the Anglo-Saxons easily.” Unlike the more rigid political structures of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms – which were highly stratified and organised around defined territories and royal authority – the Viking coalition could divide and recombine as needed. Anglo-Saxon militias, known as fyrds, were typically raised on a temporary basis from local populations and couldn’t remain mobilised indefinitely. This made it harder to respond to a fast-moving, professional raiding force, which had “different groups splitting in different directions at various points over the decade or so to come,” Barraclough says. This ability to fragment into smaller units and then regroup gave the army a strategic flexibility that its opponents struggled to match. It’s partly this fluid leadership that made the Great Heathen Army such a distinct threat to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. By the late 9th century, large parts of eastern and northern England had come under Viking control, an area later known as the Danelaw, where Scandinavian laws and customs held sway. If their goal was to take land, rather than just plunder it, this was a success for the Vikings. Eleanor Barraclough was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.