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Have archaeologists just found proof of ancient Carthage's legendary anti-Roman war weapon?
During the Second Punic War, the famous Carthaginian general Hannibal led his forces to numerous victories. But did he really take war elephants across the Alps?
The Punic Wars – and the Second Punic War (218–201 BC) specifically – were a definitive chapter in the history of the ancient world. Fought between the formidable Mediterranean power of Carthage and the upstart Roman Republic, the conflict ultimately saw the balance of power shift decisively away from the Carthaginians and towards the Romans. Had Rome fallen, Carthage would have retained its influence, and Roman civilisation may never have grown out of its infancy. Instead, the Romans won. Rome’s destruction of Carthage in 146 BC, at the end of the Third Punic War, eliminated its greatest rival. In victory, they took hold of the ancient Mediterranean, using it as a springboard for imperial expansion across Europe, North Africa and the Near East. It wasn’t until the invasions associated with Attila the Hun centuries later that Rome would again face such an existential threat. But that’s not to say that Roman victory was inevitable. During the apogee of the war, the Carthaginian general Hannibal Barca inflicted a series of devastating defeats on Roman armies. At Cannae in 216 BC, perhaps 50,000 Roman soldiers died in a single day – one of the worst military disasters in Roman history – while earlier victories at Trebia (218 BC) and Lake Trasimene (217 BC) had already demonstrated Hannibal’s military genius. Read more | Long before the ancient Roman empire, a rival superpower looked set for supremacy His most audacious, move, however, was none of these. Marching from Carthaginian territories in Iberia – modern-day Spain – Hannibal led an expeditionary force through southern Gaul and across the Alps, where he traversed the imposing mountainous slopes with a vast army that included war elephants. It was a force that arrived at the gates of Rome, pushing for a Roman surrender. It’s an astonishing story that underlines Hannibal’s determination, and most of all, his astounding logistical capabilities. But for all its fame, did it really happen? While many historians and archaeologists accept its plausibility, no physical evidence has ever been found for Hannibal’s elephantine, Alpine crossing. Ancient texts recount the elephants in detail, but physical evidence has remained conspicuous in its absence. At least, until now. New evidence for Hannibal’s ancient elephants? Archaeologists – led by Professor Rafael M Martínez Sánchez – excavating at Colina de los Quemados, near Córdoba in southern Spain, have uncovered a small elephant foot bone dating to the late third century BC – the period of Hannibal’s campaign. The discovery may represent the first tangible archaeological evidence connected to the elephants used during the Punic Wars. The roughly 10-centimetre cube-shaped bone was found beneath a collapsed wall within an Iron Age settlement. Radiocarbon dating places it firmly within the timeframe of the Second Punic War. Additional finds from the 2020 excavation (including coins, ceramics and military material) suggest the site was associated with armed conflict. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/elephant-bone-60cdac0-e1772187879548.jpeg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Comparative figure of elephant third carpal (wrist) bones showing an Iron Age archaeological specimen from Colina de los Quemados, Córdoba (top row) alongside modern Asian elephant and Steppe Mammoth examples, with numbered articular facets used for anatomical comparison." title="elephant-bone" /> Comparisons with modern elephant skeletons and even prehistoric steppe mammoths confirmed the identification. Because elephants weren’t native to Iberia, the researchers argue the animal must have been transported there, most likely by ship as part of a military operation. Carthage had long experience using the animals, likely North African forest elephants (now extinct), as part of its military. Read more | How did a crow help Rome defeat Carthage? Does the age and location of the find, and its surrounding context, point to the possibility of the bone being the remains of an elephant that was part of Hannibal’s war band, perhaps dying before the general began his famous Alpine crossing? As the paper states, the bone “could potentially embody the first known relic … of the animals used in the Punic Roman wars for the control of the Mediterranean.” So, is the bone proof of Hannibal’s elephants? For Emeritus Professor Kevin Walsh, an archaeologist at the University of York, the discovery is significant less for what it proves, than for how it fits into a long-standing historical puzzle. “The new bone evidence supports the argument that elephants were present in Hannibal’s world,” he says, speaking to HistoryExtra. But, he notes, the bone isn’t proof that this elephant belonged to Hannibal. “This does not constitute definitive physical evidence for war elephants in Hannibal’s army, and consequently, certainly not definitive evidence for elephants that would have gone on to cross France and then traverse the Alps.” Read more | Alice Roberts: “Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures” Proof, Walsh says, would ideally be “a site – or sites – that comprise artefacts directly linked to a Carthaginian army at an alpine site, along with elephant bones; a site that comprises several types of evidence supporting the presence of an army in this area in the Alps during the late third century BC.” But, as Walsh explains, preservation itself poses a problem: acidic alpine soils rarely allow bone to survive over long periods. High-altitude environments also shift over time due to erosion, glacial movement and landslides, further complicating the archaeological record. In an ideal scenario, he suggests, researchers might one day detect elephant DNA preserved within lake sediments near a plausible crossing route. In this context, the Spanish discovery serves mainly as confirmation that elephants were indeed present within the military world of late third-century BC Carthage. As Walsh says, it’s “another tantalising piece of evidence for a puzzle that is missing numerous pieces.” What was the point of Hannibal’s war elephants? Even if the bone was firm evidence for Hannibal’s war elephants, Professor Philip Freeman – a classicist at Pepperdine University and specialist in the ancient Mediterranean – says that the broader historical implications would be limited, simply because elephants weren’t always the most effective weapons. “I think the evidence of elephant bones in Spain is intriguing, but it doesn't really change our view of Hannibal or the Punic War,” he says. “No one ever seriously doubted that the Carthaginians used them in battle or that Hannibal took them to Italy, as the ancient texts say.” Read more | The overshadowed ancient empire that rivalled Rome with maritime might and an iron fist “The problem with elephants in ancient warfare was that they never made much difference. They were large and imposing but tactically offered little help. They were hard to control and might just as easily turn on their own side as the enemy. They were good for show, but not much else.” As Freeman notes, according to ancient sources, “Hannibal only had one elephant who survived the crossing of the Alps into Italy, so it made little difference to the war.” Whether the bone belongs to one of Hannibal’s elephants or simply proves the presence of elephants within the Carthaginian context, both Freeman and Walsh argue that the animals themselves were not especially important. Freeman concludes, “it was Hannibal's military brilliance that enabled him to defeat the Romans again and again, not elephants.” Hannibal’s journey across the Alps with elephants, navigating winding passes and narrow mountain ledges, may therefore be more significant as an audacious logistical achievement than as a moment of true military importance. “It is perhaps the enigma itself, and faith in the idea that such an exploit was possible, that makes any new piece of research on the topic interesting,” concludes Walsh. “Hannibal's achievement and his army's remarkable struggle contribute to a timeless story of human resilience in the face of an apparently impossible task.” 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
This ordinary ancient Roman object is still used today – and has hardly changed
From dealing with nits to learning the three Rs, ancient Roman childhood bore some striking similarities to the modern experience
Life for children in ancient Rome would have looked very different depending on where in the huge Roman empire you lived, what social class your family was from, and your gender. And while childhood in ancient Rome would have looked very different from the lives of children today, there were a few surprising similarities. Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, Bettany Hughes, a historian and author of the children’s book There Was a Roman in Your Garden, explains that “there are strange things that connect the experience of being a child in ancient Rome with the experience of being a child in the 21st century.” One overlap between childhood today and in ancient Rome is the fine-toothed nit comb, designed to remove head lice. “Nit combs are exactly the same design as they were in the ancient world – this was obviously the perfect design because it hasn't changed over the millennia,” Hughes says. But while the nit combs of today tend to be made of plastic, the ancient Romans used a different material for theirs: boxwood, a type of wood commonly used for small, carved items. “Boxwood has slight antibacterial properties, which was probably a really good thing [because] if you have nits, you scratch. Boxwood would hopefully prevent the spread of bacterial infection,” Hughes says. “The Romans were very smart, and [people in] the ancient world were much better at understanding nature and us being a part of nature than we are today,” Hughes says. Boxwood wasn’t the only plant that the Romans used for medicinal purposes. According to writings by Dioscorides, a Greek physician who was considered to be an authority on plants and plant medicine in the Roman period, oil made from walnuts was also used on children’s heads – albeit to help with alopecia or baldness, and to make the hair “pleasing.” He also recommended the “scrapings” from various gourds or squashes to help with sunstroke in children, and said that if children ate peonies, it could help to prevent kidney stones. Familiar features of ancient Roman childhood When ancient Roman children weren’t busy catching nits from each other, they might have been playing. Ancient children were given miniature versions of adult items to play with, just like some kids are today. “If you were really wealthy, there were little mini chariots pulled by goats that you could have as a well-to-do Roman child – sort of like how really wealthy kids today get mini Bentleys and Rolls Royces,” Hughes says. Poorer children also play-acted adult actions. Lots of “young boys were given wooden daggers and swords to practice play fighting with,” Hughes explains. Read more | If ancient Romans didn't understand calories, how was their theory of nutrition so accurate? While children might play with swords today, play fighting was more likely to be inspired by the real thing for ancient Roman boys, because ancient Rome was a “very militaristic society.” Girls, on the other hand, might have played with jointed dolls. “We always do that thing of thinking we do things better than people in the past, but actually the dolls that [the ancient Romans] used were really sophisticated, with beautiful moving arms, moving legs, and moving necks,” Hughes says. With their jewellery and hairstyles, historian Fanny Dolansky suggests that these dolls were created as idealised figures of high-status Roman womanhood and meant to help wealthier girls prepare for their roles as wives and mothers. What about Roman education? The basics of ancient Roman education would be recognisable to many, too; focused on the three Rs – reading, writing, and arithmetic. There was no free public schooling, so any type of formal education had to be paid for, whether children were sent to schools or if parents hired personal tutors to teach them at home. Poorer children – if lucky – would be taught the basics at home by their parents. 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 While ancient Roman children didn’t use pens and paper, they did have the ancient equivalent of whiteboards. “You’d do your writing by scratching it into a wax tablet with a pointy stick, a stylus,” Hughes says. “And then you’d erase it at the end of the day just by melting the wax or using a kind of rubber, so you had your recyclable exercise-book-equivalent for the next day.” Read more | 6 ways people stayed healthy in ancient Rome And teachers have been exasperated at the quality of childrens’ work since ancient Roman times, too. The evidence for that was found at Vindolanda – a Roman archaeological site in modern-day Northumberland, England – where some organic remains have been well-preserved. On one tablet, someone has written out a line from the ancient epic the Aeneid – and someone else has added a comment. “The teacher has just written ‘seg,’ which is short for seguta, which means sloppy,” Hughes says. “You can so imagine this poor guy or girl, desperately trying to do their homework and get praised, but the teacher being very dismissive.” Roman schooling was much tougher But while there were some similarities, education has changed a lot in the last few millennia. How you were educated and how long you stayed in school depended on your social status and your gender. Read more | Rome's worst nightmare: the story of Spartacus “Boys were often taught things like arithmetic and rhetoric and lots of other disciplines, and girls pretty much were just taught reading and writing,” Hughes says. If your family couldn’t afford to pay for your schooling, your education would be entirely up to your family – and “as soon as you could walk, you would work as a child in the ancient world,” Hughes says, whether that was taking messages or helping out in the household. Children were generally treated much more strictly, too, Hughes says. “No doubt it was very tough. They were chastised with canes and whips.” Bettnay Hughes was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
How do civilisations collapse? That was the question at the heart of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Two hundred and fifty years after it was published, Guy de la Bédoyère argues that Gibbon’s magnum opus remains a landmark in the writing of history
Sometimes, a single narrative comes to dominate how we remember a year. So it is with 1776. This, as every history lover knows, was the date that the American colonies declared their independence, beginning the history of the United States. But back in the old world, another, rather more modest event would have a profound influence on cultural history. For 1776 was also the year that the first volume of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was published in London. And though it may not have spawned a nation, there’s little doubt that the book’s release was a landmark moment in the writing of history. Authored by Edward Gibbon, an essayist and, at this time, Whig MP for Liskeard, this epic work eventually grew to encompass the story of the Roman empire from the accession of the emperor Trajan in AD 98 through to 1453, when the Ottomans captured Constantinople and the rump of the Eastern empire fell. The last of its six volumes appeared in 1788 just before another tumultuous year in global history, 1789, when the opening salvos were fired in the French Revolution. What, in the year of its 250th anniversary, are we to make of Decline and Fall? Is it coincidental that a book written at a time of rebellion, and where so much of the narrative is about political intrigues and the loss of power, connected with 18th-century readers? And how did a history based on limited resources that few scholars would refer to today escape its time to become a classic? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-122219029webready-2206e03-e1771851490986.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A life‑sized marble statue of a Roman leader stands upright against a carved stone wall. The figure wears ornate armor decorated with reliefs, including a central face and small mythological scenes. A heavy cloak drapes over the left shoulder and arm, adding a sense of movement to the otherwise rigid pose. The right arm is raised, holding a scroll that suggests authority or command. The statue’s expression is calm and formal, and the smooth, pale marble contrasts with the textured architectural backdrop" title="Trajan’s reign marked the beginning of a time when, wrote Gibbon, the Roman empire presided over the “most civilised portion of mankind” (Image by Getty Images)" /> Young and lonely To begin to answer these questions, it helps to know a little about Decline and Fall’s author. Gibbon was born in Putney in 1737 to a family of considerable means. But for all his privilege, there’s more than a suggestion of loneliness in his early life. His relationship with his mother was troubled. None of his six siblings survived to adulthood. He attended Westminster School and Magdalen College, Oxford, but is better understood as someone who was largely self-educated as a result of his extensive reading. His decision to convert to Catholicism in 1753 brought his time at Oxford to an abrupt end, but under threat of being disinherited by his father, he swiftly returned to Protestantism. There’s a sense at this stage of Gibbon failing to find a purpose in life. Or perhaps, bearing in mind his bookish creativity, a failure to find the right project. This would not arrive until 1764 when, travelling around Europe on a Grand Tour, Gibbon reached “the great object of [my] pilgrimage”, Rome. In Decline and Fall, he would famously note, “It was among the ruins of the Capitol that I first conceived the idea of a work which has amused and exercised near 20 years of my life”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/1649172Gibbonwebready-365c81c-e1771851649321.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of six books standing side by side, with their spines facing the viewer. Each book is brown, red and green in colour with gold lettering" title="The six volumes of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall were published in the 12 years between the American and French revolutions. The author declared that the book itself documented “a revolution which will ever be remembered and is still felt by the nations of the Earth” (Image by Peter Harrington)" /> Gibbon had found his calling. By the end of the 1760s, he had begun the work that would define him. His preface suggested he knew exactly what he was doing as he explained how he intended to cover the 13 and a half centuries from AD 98 to 1453 by dividing his subject into different periods. He began by explaining: “The first of these periods may be traced from the age of Trajan and the Antonines, when the Roman monarchy, having attained its full strength and maturity, began to verge towards its decline; and will extend to the subversion of the Western empire, by the barbarians of Germany and Scythia, the rude ancestors of the most polished nations of modern Europe. This extraordinary revolution, which subjected Rome to the power of a Gothic conqueror, was completed about the beginning of the sixth century.” From there, Gibbon planned to move on to a second period starting with Justinian (reigned 527–65), who was emperor for close to four decades, and lasting to the reign of Charlemagne, who founded the Carolingian empire in AD 800. A third period would take the story from this Frankish revival of the Western empire to the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Read more | Meet the “grossly underappreciated” Roman emperor who became the enemy of the ancient world Blind faith Gibbon baulked at the prospect of completing the massive task he had set himself. “I dare not presume to give any assurances,” he warned his readers. Yet for all his modesty, there was a sense of purpose about his writing. From the off, he wanted to argue that the Roman empire fell due to a combination of Christianity’s corrosive influence, which eroded civic ambition and responsibilities, and barbarian invasions, which acted as the final blow to an already weakened state. He believed that Christianity redirected the focus of citizens from worldly concerns to the afterlife, diminishing their commitment to the state. He also suggested that other internal factors – like despotism, corruption and military weakness – contributed to the empire’s internal decay before the external pressures became overwhelming. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/BAL206171webready-bdcce3f-e1771852336666.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="“A painted portrait of an 18th‑century man wearing a red coat with gold buttons, a white cravat, and a powdered wig. He faces slightly to the side against a dark background, which highlights his pale face, formal clothing, and the refined style typical of the period" title="Edward Gibbon shown in a portrait from c1779. “He deserves to be admired for as long as there is anyone around to read him,” writes Guy de la Bédoyère (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> Gibbon didn’t think he was writing about a remote and arcane subject. He believed that, “In the second century of the Christian era, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the Earth, and the most civilised portion of mankind”, neatly brushing over the total dependence of the Roman empire on slavery. The empire’s decline and fall was, Gibbon said, “a revolution which will ever be remembered, and is still felt by the nations of the Earth”. Here lay his central point. The collapse of the Roman empire, however long it had taken, had a decisive effect on the world that followed. It was, therefore, a lesson for all time in how civilisations can fall to pieces and what this might mean for those who follow. Although there are countless observations that could be made about Gibbon’s use of ancient sources, and the limitations both of his technique and the evidence he had to hand, it would be difficult to quarrel with his interest in trying to understand why and how a state could fail. This shouldn’t blind us to Decline and Fall’s limitations. One of those limitations emerges during Gibbon’s discussions of the invasion of Britain in the first century AD (in which the author looked back to see how the Roman empire grew to become the dominant force of the second century). Of the British tribes, he noted that “while they fought singly, they were successively subdued”. This is an instantly identifiable line borrowed and translated from Agricola – written by the Roman historian Tacitus and named after the general who helped mastermind the conquest of northern Britain. Read more | Roman invasion of Britain: did the Britons ignore them? Unattributed borrowings like this were commonplace at the time. In one sense, they were homages, but they also served to showcase the author’s learning and easy familiarity with classical texts. Gibbon may have expected, even wanted, his readers to notice this kind of copying and pasting, but it also illustrates an uncritical approach to his source material. A few lines on, Gibbon discussed the recall of Agricola, despite “his superior merit”, from his post as governor of Britain in the AD 80s. Agricola was Tacitus’s father-in-law, and the biography Tacitus wrote was an unashamed hagiography. Gibbon simply copied Tacitus’s very evident bias and accepted the criticisms of the last Flavian emperor, Domitian (ruled 81–96). Happy days? Gibbon was prone to making sweeping judgments. Among the most famous lines in the entire book is his assertion that, “If a man were called to fix the period in the history of the world, during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus”. This statement may be well known but that doesn’t mean it was correct. As I alluded to earlier, we now have a far more graphic understanding of the reality of Roman slavery. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-2181025710webready-7b1c152-e1771851899984.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A marble statue of a man with curly hair and a beard, looking down towards the left with a serious expression on his face" title="Gibbon saw in the second-century emperor Commodus a man unable to cope with the colossal responsibilities of imperial power (Image by Getty Images)" /> Yet Gibbon could also be astute. His stance on Commodus – the much-maligned emperor assassinated in a palace coup on the last day of 192 – showed an understanding of the vulnerability of the imperial system when the emperor lacked the personal resources to cope with the enormous demands of the job. “Commodus was not, as he has been represented, a tiger born with an insatiate thirst of human blood, and capable, from his infancy, of the most inhuman actions,” observed Gibbon. “Nature had formed him of a weak rather than a wicked disposition.” Gibbon’s descriptions of Commodus also reveal a pithiness and a joy in the use of language that helps explain Decline’s and Fall’s initial success. There are many examples of Gibbon’s meticulous turns of phrase but only room here to highlight a small number. Commodus’s downfall was precipitated by him having “discovered an aversion to whatever was rational or liberal, and a fond attachment to the amusements of the populace” since childhood. When Emperor Septimius Severus died at York on campaign in 211, Gibbon described the moment thus: “The declining health and last illness of Severus inflamed the wild ambition and black passions of [his son] Caracalla’s soul.” We might choose different words today, but Gibbon’s meaning remains obvious. He was foreshadowing what came next. Caracalla, “the common enemy of mankind”, now embarked on a tyrannical rule that lasted until his own murder in 217. The only historical figure whom Caracalla admired, Gibbon tells us, was Alexander the Great. But “in no one action of his life did Caracalla express the faintest resemblance of the Macedonian hero, except in the murder of a great number of his own and of his father’s friends”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-464435571webready-2521f5e-e1771851785523.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A marble bust of a bearded man with thick, curly hair, shown from the chest up. His expression is intense, with furrowed brows and a slightly turned head that gives a sense of movement. The sculpted curls, textured beard, and draped garment are finely detailed, highlighting the craftsmanship of the classical style" title="Gibbon reserved some of his most stinging criticisms for the emperor Caracalla, whom he labelled “the common enemy of mankind” (Image by Getty Images)" /> Maxims of persecution Gibbon also had sharp words for Constantine I, who famously converted to Christianity and issued an edict banning the persecution of Christians in 313. What this shift meant in practice, Gibbon contended, was that Christians themselves became oppressors: “The emperor imbibed the maxims of persecution; and the sects which dissented from the Catholic church were afflicted and oppressed by the triumph of Christianity.” Like so many passages of Decline and Fall, Gibbon’s writings on the impact of Christianity on Rome were phrased beautifully. But that didn’t stop them triggering a firestorm of criticism. Leading the charge was the theologian George Travis, who outlined his grave objections to the book in a series of letters published in 1785. Travis’s condemnation centred on a specific passage in the Bible known as the Johannine Comma. This was a phrase affirming the unity of the Holy Trinity that appeared in the Epistles of John, but was absent from ancient Greek manuscripts. Travis defended the Comma as authentic scripture. Yet, in his discussion of the conversion of “barbarians” to Christianity in Decline and Fall, Gibbon labelled it a “pious fraud”. Travis wrote to Gibbon to say: “It will become one who wishes to live to posterity as a historian, to consider well how he can justify himself either in literary candor [sic] or Christian charity, for accusing men so evidently conscientious… of the complicated crime of the falsification of Scripture!” Travis went on to accuse Gibbon of “bigotry” because of his “perverse adherence to any opinion of any kind, without giving to the evidence on the contrary part, an open hearing”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-1336622679webready-094aff8-e1771852165870.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A circular mosaic showing the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. At the centre, John the Baptist pours water over Jesus, who stands waist‑deep in the river. A white dove descends above them, symbolizing the Holy Spirit. The scene is surrounded by brightly colored, gold‑accented figures of angels with halos arranged in a radial pattern, creating a sense of sacred ceremony and ornate Byzantine style" title="A fifth-century mosaic shows Jesus Christ being baptised in the river Jordan, which is depicted as a pagan god. Edward Gibbon noted the ease with which early Christians made the transition from the oppressed to the oppressors (Image by Getty Images)" /> Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the Travis story is how the affair might have inspired Jane Austen. As he dashed off his pen to slate Gibbon, Travis included the phrases “partiality and prejudiced” and “certain truths which you affirm to be now universally acknowledged”. In her History of England (1791), a piece of juvenilia poking fun at school history books, the 15-year-old Austen referred to herself as a “partial, prejudiced, and ignorant historian”. In addition, Austen’s celebrated words “pride and prejudice” can be found in Decline and Fall when Gibbon refers to them as a cause of slavery. Read more | Divided they fell: how war, revolution and sectarianism led to the end of the Ottoman empire In the knives-out scholarly argument that followed the clash between Gibbon and Travis, Gibbon’s view prevailed with the support of an ancient Greek scholar called Richard Porson, who produced evidence suggesting that the Comma was a later insertion. But the episode demonstrates how, in its time, Decline and Fall was hugely controversial. Gibbon was believed by many, especially the clergy, to be attacking the very institution of the church. Resentment of Gibbon’s perceived criticism of Christianity proved enduring. The Rev HH Milman edited an 1845 edition of Decline and Fall and contributed a foreword in which he warned the reader: “We may deplore the bias of his mind; we may ourselves be on our guard against the danger of being misled, and be anxious to warn less wary readers against the same perils.” While he was gracious enough to acknowledge that Gibbon “leaves us the materials for forming a fairer judgment”, Milman insisted “that great misrepresentation which pervades his history” was a “false estimate” of the influence of Christianity. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-566460025webready-1a85702-e1771852243572.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A pencil sketch depicting a woman dressed in a white dress and cap, with her arms crossed. She has dark curly hair escaping out the front of the cap and is looking towards the left" title="A c1810 portrait of Jane Austen. Was the title of her bestselling novel inspired by Edward Gibbon’s prose? (Image by Getty Images)" /> Churchillian praise If conservative religious voices criticised Gibbon, Conservative politicians have often expressed their admiration. Winston Churchill, who was inspired by Gibbon’s self-education, said he had “devoured Gibbon”. He praised Decline and Fall and “was immediately dominated by both the story and the style”. In more recent times, Gibbon appeared at the centre of another controversy. In a 2021 interview, Boris Johnson claimed the fall of Rome was “largely the result of uncontrolled immigration”, an argument derived ultimately from Gibbon. Johnson’s warning that Europe was itself not immune to a similar fate was widely criticised for being over-simplistic, outdated and provocative. Where, then, does all this leave Edward Gibbon? If he did wish “to live to posterity as a historian”, he succeeded. Does it matter that he is now regarded as being out of date? Of course not. Decline and Fall is a valuable artefact of its own time, as is every history book. Glibly criticising works for such a failing is the last refuge of idle academics indulging the conceit that they have themselves pulled off the impossible feat of eternal and indisputable objectivity. If there was no subjectivity or bias in history there would be no history, and instead merely a series of statements of fact. Decline and Fall is also a magnificent monument to a pre-digital era when assembling a book of such epic complexity and range had all to be done by hand and in person. That Gibbon both managed this – and to do so with a memorable use of his native language – means he deserves to be admired for as long as there is anyone around to read him. As so often with the creators of great works, Gibbon’s life after Decline and Fall was an anti-climax compounded by serious ill-health and loneliness. He had never married, his father obstructing the one union – with the salon host and writer Suzanne Curchord – Gibbon had wished to pursue. Gibbon died in 1794, aged only 56 and afflicted with gout and several other ailments. He is buried in Fletching, East Sussex. When he laid down his pen in 1787, Gibbon said in his final paragraph that he hoped his readers would be excited by “a History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; the greatest, perhaps, and most awful scene in the history of mankind”. He acknowledged his own imperfections, and the inadequacy of the book compared to his own wishes but delivered it “to the curiosity and candour of the public”. And there it has remained ever since. Guy de la Bédoyère is a historian and writer with numerous books to his credit, many about the Roman world. His latest book is The Confessions of Samuel Pepys: His Private Revelations (Abacus, 2025) This article was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Toilets through time, from sponges on sticks to medieval privies
What was it like to do your business in a Roman communal toilet? How did Romans really use a sponge on a stick? HistoryExtra's David Musgrove explains all
In this whistle-stop tour of how our ancestors have used the loo, HistoryExtra’s David Musgrove heads to the National Trust's Chedworth Roman Villa in Gloucestershire, to see what we can learn from the most universal of all experiences. With expertise from historians Hannah Platts, James Wright, Tracy Borman and Jerry White, he explores the ins and outs of how toilets have worked through time – from innovations in carrying away our waste to a remarkable ancient edict that demanded flatulence. View Green Video on the source website Find out more about the history of toilets in our podcast mini-series, when Musgrove revisits long-past lavatories in the company of leading historical experts to uncover what we can learn about our ancestors and their eras – from the sociable long-drops of Roman Britain and draughty medieval garderobes to the cesspits of the Victorian slums.
From secret cults to Christianity, how did ancient Roman religion change so dramatically?
Ancient Rome didn’t abandon its gods overnight. The rise of Christianity was a slow transformation of the cult-based religious order that had structured Roman life for centuries
The word ‘cult’ is a loaded one in modern language. It might make you think of hooded figures huddled in dark rooms, perhaps organised around a singularly charismatic leader who exercises immense control over members’ lives. But in the ancient Roman empire, cults were an ordinary cornerstone of society and a pillar of religious life. This difference between modern and ancient Roman notions of cults is central to understanding one of the most significant social transformations in western history: how the Roman world moved from a polytheistic system of many gods, to a Christian empire centred on a single deity – the Abrahamic God. As professor Philip Freeman explains, “the word cult tends to have a negative connotation, but it’s actually a good word, and we use it all the time in academic contexts.” So what exactly were these cults, and what impact did they have on the death of the old Roman gods, and the adoption of Christianity? Roman religion as social infrastructure The Romans were far less concerned with what individuals believed internally than with whether they performed the correct rituals in the proper way. There was no sacred book that defined orthodoxy, and no central institution equivalent to a church. Instead, religion functioned through a web of practices embedded in everyday life and anchored around cults. Cults were places where people met regularly, shared meals and honoured a god together. “Think of a cult as a social group,” says Freeman, who was speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. One of the clearest examples of a cult still exists beneath modern London. “If you go to the financial district, you can visit the Temple of Mithras in the basement of a bank,” Freeman says. This temple, dedicated to the god Mithras, was discovered in the 1950s. Mithraism was one of the most widespread cults in the Roman world, especially among soldiers and officials. Read more | Constantine the Great: the emperor who created Europe “That was a cult found all over the Roman empire. It was dedicated to a god, it was male-only, and it functioned as a social club as well as a religious one. There were sacrifices and ritual practices, but it was also a way to make friends and to establish business relationships.” Pluralism as the Roman norm An aspect of Roman religion that’s crucial to understanding how Christianity took hold is that the Romans didn’t see gods and religions as mutually exclusive. A single individual might honour household gods at home, take part in public sacrifices to civic deities, belong to a professional cult, and also be initiated into a mystery cult such as those of Mithras or Isis. None of this was contradictory. “There was enormous variety,” Freeman says. “Some cults were absolutely secret, you could never know what went on inside them. Others were much more open.” Read more | Roman medicine: 6 ways people stayed healthy in ancient Rome This pluralism made Roman religion extraordinarily resilient. New gods could be added without threatening old ones, while local traditions could coexist with empire-wide cults. As Rome expanded, it absorbed foreign deities rather than repressing them, often identifying them with Roman gods through a process historians call interpretatio romana. This was a way of integrating new communities into Roman life. Christianity emerged “in a Roman province called Palestine at the very start of the first century AD,” Freeman explains. It developed initially within Jewish communities, sharing many of their scriptures and traditions, before gradually attracting non-Jewish converts. At first, it was a small, local cult among many. What made it different was its exclusivity. Christians rejected the system of many gods, rather than adding their god to the system. They refused to worship other deities, rejected the practice of sacrifice, and refused to honour the emperor as a divine figure. This alarmed the Roman authorities. Religion was a public expression of loyalty and social participation. Performing sacrifices was seen as a civic duty that helped maintain harmony between gods and state. Refusing to take part at first seemed anti-Roman, and subversive. Read more | Rome's worst nightmare: the story of Spartacus This helps explain why Christianity faced periodic persecution from the outset. “It takes more than 300 years before Christianity is accepted officially under Emperor Constantine,” Freeman says. Even then, acceptance didn’t mean dominance. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-1357713099-0359257-e1770984356984.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This gold coin, struck in Antioch in AD 324–325, bears the portrait of Emperor Constantine I, the ruler who transformed the Roman empire’s religious landscape. After endorsing Christianity with the Edict of Milan in 313 and convening the Council of Nicaea in 325, Constantine paved the way for the faith’s imperial acceptance." title="Solidus (Coin) Portraying Emperor Constantine I" /> How Christianity learned to behave like a Roman cult One reason Christianity survived long enough to gain imperial support was that it gradually came to resemble the cults that Romans were already familiar with and understood. Like the cults, Christian communities were close-knit networks with shared rituals and mutual aid. But unlike many cults, they were inclusive, and open to men and women alike. They cared for the sick and poor, creating threads of loyalty that went beyond religious norms. These social benefits were particularly attractive in times of epidemic, famine and economic instability – all intermittent challenges faced by the Roman empire as it progressed past the turn of the millennium. Read more | Alice Roberts: “Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures” At the same time, Christianity adapted culturally. Freeman stresses that early Christians were pragmatic. “Christians recognised that they were not going to defeat polytheism quickly. The process had to be gradual. “If a particular goddess was popular and people enjoyed worshipping her, Christians might say, ‘This is very much like the Virgin Mary.’” This strategy allowed for a feeling of continuity in daily religious life, even as the theological meanings shifted. The long fading of the old Roman gods Even after Christianity gained imperial backing in the fourth century AD, traditional religions didn’t vanish. Imperial laws against pagan worship were unevenly enforced, especially outside major cities. Freeman points out that “we have records from after the fall of the Roman empire showing that people in Italy, even in Rome itself, were still worshipping other gods and goddesses.” Christian writers repeatedly complained about stubborn pagan practices. So when did the Roman gods truly disappear? “If forced to give a date, I would probably say by the sixth century AD the old pagan religion was gone.” By then, major temples had closed and state support for non-Christian worship had ended. Christianity hadn’t destroyed the cult system, so much as it had adapted to it. Professor Philip Freeman was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Sarah E Bond reveals why the history of labour resistance goes back much further than you might think
Strikes and unions may seem like modern inventions, but they’ve existed for much longer than many of us realise. Historian Sarah E Bond talks to Jon Bauckham about how people in ancient Rome challenged authority and withheld their labour – from disgruntled mint workers to rebellious charioteers.
Meet the “grossly underappreciated” Roman emperor who became the enemy of the ancient world
Ancient Rome’s reputation for bad emperors partly rests on hostile sources written after the fact – and Domitian may be the clearest case of how politics shaped historical memory
The moral map of the Roman empire might seem fairly simple. There were good emperors, who governed wisely and brought stability, and there were bad emperors, whose tenures dissolved into cruelty and paranoia. Nero and Caligula are the names most firmly and famously in the latter category – but Domitian, who ruled from AD 81 to 96, is often considered not far behind. But according to historian Edward J Watts our certainty about the flaws of these ‘worst’ Roman emperors rests on shaky foundations. And as for Domitian? “He is grossly underappreciated,” says Watts, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. How ancient Roman history was written Most surviving narratives of the early Roman emperors who followed Julius Caesar were written decades after the events they describe. Their authors were members of Rome’s senatorial and literary elite, who were deeply invested in the dynamics and mechanics of power. What they were not, Watts asserts, were neutral observers. Among the most influential was Suetonius, who Watts describes as “an incredibly gifted biographer”. His account The Twelve Caesars remains one of the most widely read accounts of imperial Rome. It gives us biographies of Julius Caesar, and then the next 11 emperors. Why end there? The answers, says Watts, is “because the last of them is the emperor Domitian”. Read more | Long before the ancient Roman empire, a rival superpower looked set for supremacy The narrative arc culminates in Domitian’s reign as emperor. He is presented as the endpoint of Rome’s moral and political decline. His assassination is framed as a cleansing restoration, clearing the way for a new and better order to take root. That framing shaped how later generations understood both Domitian and the nature of imperial power itself, says Watts. 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 Domitian and the Senate Domitian was the third and final member of the Flavian dynasty of Roman emperors, beginning with Vespasian in AD 69. He was succeeded by his son Titus in AD 79, who in turn was succeeded by second son Domitian in AD 81. Unlike earlier emperors who attempted to maintain a display of senatorial partnership, Domitian ruled as an open and unapologetic autocrat. “Domitian was, I think, a wonderfully underappreciated figure,” says Watts. “Because what Domitian does is he finds talented people like Suetonius, who are bouncing around at the very lowest levels of Roman elite life, and he turbocharges them. “He had a difficult relationship with the Roman Senate, and he wanted new people in positions of power whom he knew he could trust.” By promoting capable administrators without deep senatorial pedigrees, Domitian weakened the traditional aristocracy’s grip on the state. From a practical standpoint, the policy worked. Under Domitian, Rome’s imperial financial and administrative efforts were stabilised, and the empire avoided civil war for 15 years – a considerable achievement by Roman standards. From the Senate’s perspective, however, this circumvention was intolerable and created a deep resentment. Domitian’s assassination, and the Roman art of political survival Domitian was assassinated in AD 96 by a palace conspiracy that included his chamberlain, Parthenius, and his wife, Domitia Longina. “The new regime that comes in disavows Domitian and calls him a tyrant,” says Watts. That denunciation placed prominent figures who had flourished under Domitian in an awkward position. Writers such as Tacitus and Pliny the Younger had built careers under Domitian’s rule, benefiting from a system that was now being denounced. “And all of these people, including Suetonius, but also Tacitus, and also Pliny, scramble to figure out how they, who benefited from their close relationship with Domitian, can now find a place for themselves in this new regime,” says Watts. “And so they turn on Domitian really, really aggressively. They write these histories of the emperors before the new regime as tyrants.” Condemning Domitian served two purposes: it legitimised the new order and distanced its beneficiaries from the fallen emperor. Creating Rome’s canonical villains “Suetonius’s imperial biography explicitly goes through the succession and ends with Domitian as this horrible figure,” says Watts. “He also does a tremendous number on Caligula, and on Nero as well. That’s where these legendary ‘terrible emperors’ get their initial reputations.” But Watts argues that not all of these emperors were equally bad – if bad at all. Aside from Caligula. “I have tried really hard to redeem Caligula,” Watts admits. “I don’t think that can be done.” Caligula came to power in AD 37 and, according to multiple hostile sources, rapidly descended into paranoia. “He gets very sick a few months into his reign,” Watts explains. “He believes he was poisoned, and he becomes extremely paranoid.” The consistency of accounts describing arbitrary violence and psychological instability make it difficult to dismiss Caligula’s reputation as mere propaganda. “I don’t think there’s any way to rationalise what he’s doing,” Watts says. Read more | If ancient Romans didn't understand calories, how was their theory of nutrition so accurate? Watts paints Nero, however, as a more nuanced case. “I think Nero is complicated,” Watts says. Early in his reign, Nero pursued popular reforms and cultivated public support. But his ambitions outpaced his abilities. “He had ideas that made sense; he was just too incompetent and foolish to execute them.” Over time, his rule became increasingly violent and erratic, culminating in acts – such as the murder of his mother and brutal reprisals against perceived enemies – that hardened his reputation. “He was very vicious,” Watts says. Conversely, Domitian was effective in executing his wishes, but he was also demanding and deeply suspicious of opposition. “With Domitian, I think he just gets a bad rap,” Watts says. “I think the political circumstances under which Suetonius, Tacitus, and Pliny are all writing mean that they almost by necessity are going to give him the worst possible reputation they can.” Edward J Watts was speaking to Spencer Mizen on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Why Pompeii's tragedy still captivates us today
Historian Jess Venner explains what the greatest finds from Pompeii and Herculaneum tell us about Roman life
When the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum were buried by ash spewed out of Vesuvius in AD 79, so too were their inhabitants, frozen in the moment of their deaths. In the final episode of our four-part series, Kev Lochun is joined by historian Dr Jess Venner to discuss the myriad legacies of Pompeii. They explore the dangers of imprinting stories on mortal remains, the Pompeiian propensity for erotic art – and why, centuries on, Pompeii still echoes through the ages. Want to know more about the story of Pompeii? HistoryExtra's Kev Lochun has curated a selection of essential reading from the HistoryExtra archives to help you explore the story of the cataclysm, the Roman way of life and the nature of the Roman empire. Go beyond the podcast.
Historian Jess Venner explains how the ancient Roman city was ‘lost’ – and found again centuries later
The buried Roman city of Pompeii was ‘discovered’ in the 16th century, but was it ever lost? In this penultimate episode of our four-part series, Kev Lochun speaks with historian Dr Jess Venner about the years between destruction and excavation. How did the beleaguered Roman emperor Titus react to the disaster and the refugee crisis that followed? Why was no attempt made to resettle and rebuild? And how did the city become the archeological marvel we know it as today? Want to know more about the story of Pompeii? HistoryExtra's Kev Lochun has curated a selection of essential reading from the HistoryExtra archives to help you explore the story of the cataclysm, the Roman way of life and the nature of the Roman empire. Go beyond the podcast.
Long before the ancient Roman empire, a rival superpower looked set for supremacy
Before the Punic Wars, as Rome and Carthage edged towards conflict in the third century BC, the balance of power in the Mediterranean favoured the Carthaginians. But it was the upstart Romans who would be victorious
The ancient Romans would come to build one of the world’s mightiest empires, spanning continents and moulding the trajectory of much of Europe and the spaces around it. But that wasn’t an outcome that always seemed likely. In the years before the start of the Punic Wars, which would eventually see the Romans emerge as the Mediterranean’s dominant force, it was a different power that seemed to hold the keys to the future: Carthage. “In the middle of the third century BC, when the Punic Wars began, if you were going to take a bet on who was going to control the Mediterranean, you probably would not have bet on Rome.” That’s the view of Professor Philip Freeman, stressing that the world Rome was emerging into was already crowded with established powers. How, then, did it take advantage of the situation? Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, Freeman set out the rivalry between Carthage and Rome and revealed how Rome’s imperial ambitions meant the Punic Wars were inevitable. Ancient Carthage before Rome “Carthage has a fascinating history,” explains Freeman. “It was one of many different colonies that were founded by the Phoenicians, starting in about the year 1000 BC.” The Phoenicians were expert sailors and merchants, and one of the earliest European powers. Rather than conquering large inland territories, they established a network of coastal settlements specifically designed to facilitate trade and spur commercial opportunities. Read more | The overshadowed ancient empire that rivalled Rome with maritime might and an iron fist As Freeman emphasises, “they were not an empire in the sense of the Romans, or other empires. What they wanted to do was found trading posts.” Over time, that strategy would go on to produce extraordinary wealth. Phoenician settlements spread along the north African coast, across southern Spain, and even beyond the Strait of Gibraltar. Their great cities included Rhodes, Leptis Magna, Tyre and Sidon. But it was Carthage that eclipsed its peers, transforming from a colony into what Freeman calls “the leading city of north Africa”. By the third century BC, Carthage had become a hub of astonishing commerce, and a genuine Mediterranean superpower. Its strength lay in its maritime trade, financial prowess and control of key sea routes. It commanded colonies and client territories, and established long-standing treaties that bound much of the western Mediterranean into its economic orbit. In contrast, Rome’s influence barely extended beyond the Italian peninsula. Rome on the margins of the Mediterranean world Rome was a different kind of power. It possessed formidable infantry armies but had little naval capacity – and no overseas empire. From a contemporary perspective, Rome was just one power among many. Though it was arguably inferior to Carthage, there was a fundamental difference between the two. Read more | How Hannibal beat the Alps but couldn't beat Rome “The Carthaginians, in general, did not have the great imperial ambitions that the Romans did,” explains Freeman. Carthaginian power was commercial and strategic rather than territorial. Its leaders focused on protecting trade routes and ports rather than the permanent acquisition of new land. On the other hand, “Rome was very much an expansive power. They were interested in empire and spreading their control over as much territory as they reasonably could.” Sicily and the road to the Punic Wars It was Sicily that would prove to be the flashpoint. Located between modern mainland Italy and north Africa, the island was of vital strategic importance – partly due to its abundant grain supplies. “The Carthaginians controlled the north African coast, and they controlled Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica,” Freeman notes. “And that [Sicily] was next on the list for the Romans as they were expanding.” Read more | How did a crow help Rome defeat Carthage? What began as a local dispute over control of Sicily escalated into Rome’s first major overseas war in 264 BC. This was unprecedented, and the Romans were forced to confront a maritime power that had already dominated Mediterranean waters for centuries. By 146 BC, however, the picture was very different. Carthage had been destroyed and Rome stood as the leading power of the western Mediterranean. But although Rome did achieve victory, it wasn’t inevitable. The Punic Wars oscillated between periods of ascendancy and advantage for both Rome and Carthage. The great Carthaginian war leader Hannibal, for example, nearly oversaw the complete destruction of Rome. At the battle of Cannae in 216 BC, his overwhelmed forces killed up to 50,000 Roman soldiers in a single day. What was inevitable, says Freeman, was the outbreak of the wars themselves. “I think the Punic Wars are an example of the ‘Thucydides Trap’. “The concept, taken from the Greek historian Thucydides, says that when a rising power comes up against an older, established power, you are almost certainly going to have war. This is a situation that takes place again and again throughout history.” Professor Philip Freeman was speaking to Rob Attar on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.