The official website for BBC History Magazine
The ingenious Roman invention that sparked the ancient empire’s obsession with luxury
Beneath the mosaic floors of Roman villas, an ingenious system of underfloor heating transformed warmth into a mark of power
Think of Roman engineering, and it might be the grandest feats that first come to mind: the towering aqueducts bringing water to towns and cities, the amphitheatres filled with cheering crowds, and the paved roads that stitched the Roman empire together. The hypocaust – the Roman system of underfloor heating – may be less staggering in its scale, but it remains one of the most recognisable features of Roman domestic life. Archaeologists still point to those distinctive stacks of bricks beneath villa floors as a mark of Roman sophistication. “The hypocaust system is really important for us to think about when we consider Roman homes,” explains Dr Hannah Platts on the HistoryExtra podcast. “It was important to them: that it heated their baths and their other spaces.” But they weren’t for everyone. Who owned homes with underfloor heating? And what did such comfort say about status and power? “I should reiterate, having your own bathhouse or having a hypocaust was a luxury,” says Platts. Rome’s underfloor miracle At its simplest, a hypocaust worked by circulating hot air through a hollow space beneath the floor. A furnace, or praefurnium, was stoked outside the building; hot air from the furnace was funnelled into a network of small brick pillars (pilae) that supported a raised floor. But it wasn’t just about heating the floor. Read more | How and why did the Roman empire fall? “The hypocaust was used to heat houses via underfloor heating, but actually we’ve got a number of houses where we’ve got evidence of box flue tiles in the walls,” says Platts. “So we know that hypocausts could heat the walls of the rooms as well.” In the context of ancient Rome this was engineering of incredible sophistication. Archaeological remains from sites such as Pompeii and Ostia, and across Roman Britain, show entire suites of rooms heated by the system. Stepping barefoot on a mosaic floor, warmed from underneath, was quite literally to step upon Roman ingenuity. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-501581407-bcc2688-e1761039389477.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The Roman baths at Salamis, dating to the 3rd century, feature a well-preserved hypocaust system beneath the tepidarium, or warm room. This network of brick pillars once channelled hot air under and through the floors." title="Roman Baths in Salamis, 3rd century." /> From the baths to the villa The hypocaust began as a public luxury, eventually exported to private homes. The earliest examples appeared in the great bath complexes (thermae) of the late republic and early empire. Roman baths were vast public leisure centres and required consistent, large-scale heating. The first recorded Roman hypocausts date to the first century BC, developed under architects and engineers serving figures such as Marcus Agrippa, the ally and later son-in-law of the Roman emperor Augustus. Under Augustus himself, public bathhouses multiplied across Rome and its provinces. The technique soon spread to private villas, where the wealthy adapted public comfort for domestic display. Read more | The Roman invasion: whose side were the Britons on? By the second century AD, during the reigns of emperors such as Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, the hypocaust had become a standard feature of elite architecture across the empire – from the Mediterranean heartlands to the frontier forts of Britain. The price of luxury But this warmth came at a cost. “We know that the idea of heating your house was really important, but it wasn’t for everyone,” says Platts. “To have a hypocaust system in one’s house was a big sign of wealth. It would generally only have been present in examples of really opulent and wealthy dwellings: dwellings that, for example, might have their own private bathhouses. “They didn’t even need to go to the general baths. They could just have fun in their own spaces.” And, Platts says, what often goes forgotten is that maintaining heat from a hypocaust was hard. Read more | Everything you wanted to know about the Roman emperors “It took significant effort to build [and] to maintain,” says Platts. Fires had to be constantly fed with wood, ash cleared away and airways cleaned. “There’s engineering skill behind it too,” says Platts. “Not everyone is going to be able to build a hypocaust. There is a huge amount of skill behind that building process, and then you’ve actually got to be able to run the hypocaust and have it working. It really would’ve taken considerable finances to build a hypocaust within your house.” The result was that the hypocaust became an unmistakable badge of wealth. Visitors entering a villa with warm floors knew instantly that they stood in the home of someone of status. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-122321683-4d378a5-e1761039625347.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This Roman mosaic from Sousse, Tunisia, shows the poet Virgil seated between the muses Clio and Melpomene as he writes the Aeneid." title="Tunisia, Susa, Mosaic work depicting the poet Virgil (Publius Vergilius Maro, 70 A.C... - 19 A.C...) writing the Aeneid sitting between the muses Clio and Melpomene" /> The Roman world of privilege and luxury The hypocaust was one element within the broader picture of Roman luxury. For the upper classes, architecture, fashion, and food all worked together to display wealth and taste. “What also would be luxuries could be the way in which people spent their fortunes in other ways,” Platts says. “I’m thinking about fashionable clothing, or elaborate jewellery or gemstones. Romans loved amber. They loved pearls. They had quite a thing for uncut diamonds – as we all might – and things that were imported: ivory imported from Africa, silks imported from towards China.” The global reach of the Roman empire fed its appetite for exotic goods. To own these luxuries, to eat peppered dishes and dress in silk, was to embody the luxuries of empire. “Anything like fine wines, exotic spices, was a really good way of showing your status,” Platts notes. In this way, food became another way to demonstrate power. Enslaved servants circulated trays of imported delicacies from Britain, Syria and Africa, served to guests in rooms warmed by the hypocaust. Living symbols of servitude Luxury in Rome was also inseparable from labour, says Platts. Read more | Ancient Roman slavery: what was life like as an enslaved person? “Whilst owning a slave in and of itself was not a luxury – Rome was a slave-based economy, and actually, even many of the really relatively poor households would likely have one or two enslaved people living under their roofs – the number of slaves you had, where they came from, and how skilled they were, that really was a sign of wealth and luxury.” For the Roman elites, warm homes – and the people who kept them running – were signs of sophistication and wealth combined. The hypocaust might not have been as spectacular as an aqueduct or as imposing as an amphitheatre, but it does symbolise a crucial fact of ethos of the Roman empire: it shows how innovative engineering served comfort for the wealthy as much as conquest on the frontiers. Hannah Platts was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
How Julius Caesar's funeral drama fuelled the mob
Jessica Clarke unearths the subtle counterplot that turned the political tides against Julius Caesar's assassins
The assassination ofJulius Caesar is one of the most infamous plots of the ancient world, but the dictator's death wasn't the only moment in his life and afterlife marked by political machinations. Speaking to Emily Briffett, Jessica Clarke reveals how careful curation and stage management transformed Caesar's funeral from a quiet moment of mass mourning to a bloody spectacle of revenge.
Ancient Roman theatre was a powerful weapon of empire, so why were actors' lives so tragic?
They performed before thousands and could become celebrities, yet actors in ancient Rome were stripped of their civic rights. What was life really like for the men who took to the Roman stage?
Roman society was acutely hierarchical. Every occupation carried a moral weight, and the line between dignity and dishonour was a stark one. A senator who spoke in the law courts could win eternal repute, but a gladiator who risked his life to entertain the masses was branded socially devalued, and the same was true of actors. No matter how dazzling their performances in front of a packed theatre might be, their profession consigned them to the lowest rungs of society. By law they were infamis; people of ill repute, stripped of civic rights and grouped alongside the enslaved. But what was this paradoxical life of stardom and shame really like for the actors of the Roman empire? Roman theatre’s golden age under Augustus “When we talk about a golden age of Roman theatre, we tend to be talking about Emperor Augustus’s reign and the beginning of the Roman empire,” says Jessica Clarke, author of A New History of Ancient Roman Theatre, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. “This was a period with new cultural, religious and political structures being implemented.” Augustus was the first emperor of Rome, ruling from 27 BC until AD 14. And he grasped how useful theatre could be as a political tool. Read more | The worst Roman emperors Spectacle was part of a strategy that Romans would come to call panem et circenses, or bread and circuses: free food and entertainment offered to the populace in return for loyalty and social cohesion. Drama and performance helped bind audiences into a shared Roman identity and provided a stage (quite literally) for imperial ideology. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-122211671-b717d9b-e1760010634986.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 1st-century AD mosaic from the House of the Tragic Poet in Pompeii depicts the staging of a theatrical performance. Such scenes highlight the importance of theatre in Roman cultural life, blending entertainment with expressions of myth, satire, and social commentary." title="Roman civilization. Mosaic depicting staging of show in theatre. From House of Tragic Poet in Pompeii" /> A web of theatres across the Roman empire “Augustus built hundreds of theatres across the Roman empire, all following the design of the theatre that he also built for himself in Rome,” Clarke explains. “These theatres are enormous, they’re spread across all of the provinces. Essentially, what he built was a web of entertainment venues that Rome was in charge of.” These theatres were architectural marvels in themselves. The Theatre of Marcellus in Rome, inaugurated by Augustus in 13 BC and named after his nephew, could seat more than 10,000 people. Its semicircular rows of stone seating rose above a wide orchestra space and a stage backed by the towering scaenae frons; a richly decorated permanent backdrop of columns, niches and statues. Men and women alike could attend the performances at this new wave of theatres, (unlike in Greece, where women were mostly banned from attending) and seating was arranged by social rank, with senators and equestrians – members of the second-highest social class – in prime positions, and the poor higher up. Read more | Women in ancient Greece: what were their lives like? Performances ranged from solemn tragedies to ribald comedies, farcical mimes and elaborate pantomimes accompanied by music and dance. Admission was usually free, funded by magistrates or emperors seeking popularity. Who performed and who was excluded The Roman stage, however, was overwhelmingly male. As in Greece, women were largely banned from treading the boards. Clarke points to the existence of scant evidence of female performers in mime and pantomime – forms considered lower status and more risqué – but official theatre roles were reserved for men. “It’s quite similar to Shakespearean rules around who is allowed to step onto a stage,” says Clarke. “Though it would have been slightly easier for men to play the female roles because they had masks on.” Masks, made of linen and plaster or occasionally wood, were central to performance, and not just because they made it easier for men to portray women; they exaggerated expressions and amplified voices too. 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 Actors as infamis No amount of training or talent could lift an actor out of the social stigma that came with the role. “In ancient Rome, acting was an incredibly lowly profession,” says Clarke. “It wasn’t something that was seen as an acceptable job for a Roman citizen to undertake. An actor was in the class known as infamis. “This was the same class as a slave; the same class as a prostitute. You would have no voting rights, and you also don’t have bodily autonomy, so you don’t have legal rights over your body,” Clarke explains. Why this disdain? Roman moralists believed that a respectable citizen should preserve dignitas (dignity) and gravitas (seriousness). To display one’s body on stage, to impersonate others, or to provoke laughter was considered undignified. The actor sold their body and voice for public pleasure, which made the profession inherently shameful. Read more | Who were the gladiators of ancient Rome? Plus Spartacus, Crixus and 8 more fighters you should know This attitude was consistent with how Roman society viewed other entertainers. Gladiators might achieve celebrity in the arena, and charioteers could command passionate fan followings, but both were technically degraded in status. Performers were celebrated in spectacle but lacked any standing in civic life. The life of a Roman actor Evidence from inscriptions, satirical writings and contracts paints a picture of precariousness. Troupes travelled from town to town, dependent on festivals and civic sponsorship for work, while pay was unreliable; some actors received generous gifts, others little more than food and board. The constant would have been the rehearsals. Actors trained their voices to carry across open-air theatres, practised precise gestures codified to signal emotions and maintained the masks, costumes and props essential for performance. Injuries would have been common, especially in physical pantomimes involving acrobatics. Read more | The overshadowed ancient empire that rivalled Rome with maritime might and an iron fist “But that doesn’t mean that we don’t know about some very famous actors,” says Clarke. “One we know of is called Clodius Aesopus. He was the most famous tragic actor in the late Republic. Cicero was friends with him.” Aesopus, active in the first century BC, was celebrated for bringing Greek classics to Roman audiences. As Clarke notes, he became a personal acquaintance of Marcus Tullius Cicero, one of Rome’s greatest statesmen, orators and philosophers, whose speeches still survive as masterpieces of Latin prose. That such a figure could publicly befriend an actor underscores the inherent paradox: Aesopus was admired, wealthy and socially connected, yet in law he remained infamis. Life as a Roman actor was full of strange contradictions. The art form of theatre was a powerful political tool, theatres themselves were magnificent constructions, audiences were vast and enthusiastic, and some performers became famous enough to mingle with Rome’s elite. Yet the profession itself stripped actors of rights and respect. It was a life lived in the spotlight, but without dignity. Jessica Clarke was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
In the second century BC, Roman troops razed the city of Carthage and obliterated its civilisation. So why, asks Eve MacDonald, did the victors remain obsessed by their conquered foes for the next 200 years?
Carthage burned for six days. After three long years of siege, in the spring of 146 BC Roman soldiers finally broke through the city’s defences and began to slaughter the population. But still the Carthaginians resisted. Street by street, they threw themselves at their enemy. Rome’s relentless military machine moved from the city’s ports, across the temple-filled marketplace and up the streets that lined the central hill. There they were assailed by projectiles hurled down from roofs by women, children and old men. Yet the Romans’ fierce assault on that already ancient city on the north African coast could not be stopped. They went from house to house, ascending to roofs, rooting out Carthaginians from their hiding places. Houses burned and bodies lined the streets while a unit of ‘sweeper’ soldiers cleared away the dead to allow access for more troops. The scene, as told by the Greek historian Appian – in what, it seems, was an eyewitness account – paints a gruesome picture of conquest in the ancient world. It was so brutal, in fact, that the Roman commander, Scipio Aemelianus, had to change his troops frequently, sending in fresh fighters to combat the Carthaginians’ desperate attempts to defend their land, their houses, their families, their gods and their very lives. Those attempts at defence came to nought. The people of Carthage were slaughtered or enslaved, their once-beautiful city left in smouldering ruins on the shores of the Mediterranean. As a result of the destruction, and of the memory of the wars fought between these two ancient superpowers, Carthage became an integral part of the story of Rome and its rise to empire. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/shutterstockeditorial14491209jWeb-Ready-b90d516.jpg" width="5824" height="3883" alt="A photograph of a ruin. The foreground is a large, ragged stone arch, and beyond it, there are some white columns coming out of various size of rocks" title="A century after destroying Carthage in 146 BC, Rome made the city the empire’s main urban centre in Africa, installing familiar elements such as the extensive Baths of Antoninus (Image by Shutterstock)" /> Stolen story The tale of Carthage became a lesson to all those who dared to challenge Rome. Once it had been razed, all that remained of the history of this great city was co-opted by its enemy. The story of those who had built and designed its urban landscape, its technologically superior ports, its defensive walls, and its multi-story houses with indoor plumbing and waters cisterns disappeared. So, too, the memory of its mothers, fathers, grandparents and children – all inundated beneath the tales Romans told of their great victory. In the centuries that followed, the complex culture of Carthage was largely reduced to a simplistic account of Roman wars. Nonetheless, Carthage and all it stood for became a foundational part in the Roman story. The victors believed that, in defeating the Carthaginians, Rome had become the imperial power it is still renowned as today. That view is clear in the comments of the Roman historian Livy, writing well over 100 years after the fall of Carthage – and following many other wars – who remembered the events of the second conflict between the two powers (218–201 BC) as “the most memorable war ever fought”. But who were the Carthaginians? We remember very few of its citizens, even though their city had stood on the north coast of Africa – its ruins now preserved just east of Tunis – for over 600 years before its destruction. Thanks to its location and rich agricultural land, Carthage was prosperous, and its influence stretched across the central and western Mediterranean, a thriving hub with connections to east and west. The city was founded by Phoenician-speaking people in the ninth century BC – and the story of that genesis is intertwined with Roman myths of their own civilisation’s origins. In particular, one recounted by the poet Virgil (70–19 BC) told of a famous queen named Dido, who tempted the Trojan hero Aeneas and played the femme fatale in the epic story of Rome’s foundation. Born a Phoenician princess named Elishat, Dido had clashed with her brother in Tyre (now in Lebanon) and left to lead an expedition to the western Mediterranean where, according to the legend, she established her new city. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/2F7T19TWeb-Ready-e8652c6.jpg" width="4560" height="3040" alt="A brown and gold mosaic showing a couple with their arms wrapped around each other. On either side of them are trees with winding trunks and brown leaves" title="The mythological Phoenician princess Dido, who reputedly founded Carthage, shown with the Trojan hero Aeneas in a Roman mosaic. Virgil painted Dido as a temptress, reinforcing Roman views of Carthaginians as duplicitous (Image by Alamy)" /> Melting pot The Phoenician name for Carthage was Qart Hadasht – ‘the New City’. From its very earliest days, it was a melting pot of cultures. Here, north Africans (called Numidians or Libyans in the Greek and Roman sources, today known as Amazigh), Greeks and Phoenicians from ancient centres of the eastern Mediterranean lived and intermarried, along with various Semitic-speaking peoples and others from western regions. As the city evolved into a state, it created new citizens who, by the fifth century BC, had become Carthaginians. This colonial story reflects the origins of so many of the great cities of the western Mediterranean, whose origins were a mix of eastern Mediterranean and indigenous western peoples. Carthage was, like Rome, founded under a monarchical rule that evolved into a republican-styled oligarchy built on a mix of religious traditions and ethnicities. Archaeological excavations have revealed more about these years. They tell us that it was not an easy start for the Carthaginians, the population growing slowly from the city’s foundation on a hill called Byrsa. But within a few centuries they were producing steel in their forges, exporting agricultural produce and importing luxury goods from the east, west, north and south. Material found in burials in the city reflects a dialogue between different influences from the eastern Mediterranean, central Italy and the far west. There are decorated ostrich eggs and gold jewellery with Egyptian-influenced imagery, and unguents and perfumes imported in delicate vessels from the east. Carthaginians traded across the Mediterranean, and were allied to many different cities and states – including the Romans, whose earliest known treaty was with Carthage, in the sixth century BC. The two cities shared cults, competed for markets and had related families; they were friends before they ever became enemies. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/426522001cmykwebready-b3a37d5.jpg" width="3071" height="2048" alt="A Carthaginian limestone stela fragment featuring the anthropomorphic symbol believed to represent Tanit, their most important female deity (Image by the Trustees of the British Museum)" title="A Carthaginian limestone stela fragment featuring the anthropomorphic symbol believed to represent Tanit, their most important female deity (Image by the Trustees of the British Museum)" /> The Phoenician cities of the Levant – broadly, from Lebanon to Syria, Israel and Palestine today – were conquered by the Achaemenid Persian empire in the sixth and fifth centuries BC. That changed the relationship between Carthage and its mother city, Tyre, providing the catalyst for the African city to grow into its own power. This coincided with an increasingly linked Mediterranean world and a boom in wealth and knowledge across the region – with Carthage in the middle of it all. Phoenician-speaking peoples from ancient cities such as Byblos, Tyre, Sidon and Beirut (all in what’s now Lebanon) had spread out across the Mediterranean, bringing with them an alphabet that was adopted by the Greeks, Etruscans and Romans, and which seeded the characters we still use today. From the eighth and seventh centuries BC, connected cities were established on Sicily, Sardinia, Malta, the Balearic Islands, the north coast of Africa and the southern coast of Spain and Portugal, all of which shared a Phoenician language and culture of origin. Paradigm of power At the centre of this network was Carthage, which grew powerful and wealthy – but also became drawn into conflict with other city states in the region, especially on the island of Sicily, which by the mid-third century BC was partially under direct Carthaginian control. In c264 BC, the Romans launched an all-out war on Sicily that shifted the paradigm of power and, in their own records, created a new narrative about their might. The Greek historian Polybius (c200–c118 BC)sets up his account of the rise of Rome with the lines: “I shall take as my starting point the first time that the Romans crossed to Sicily.” From the late third century BC, as the Romans fought wars with Carthage, they also started to write about them. Only fragments of lost epic poetry survive from this period, but these few words are some of the earliest surviving pieces of Latin prose and verse, including Naevius’s Bellum Poenicum (The Punic War). So the Carthaginians, and the wars they fought with Rome, were a foundational part of the creation of Latin literature. The events of these so-called Punic Wars (more on that name later) shaped the very nature of the written culture that went on to influence all of the literature of the later European languages that derive from Latin. A Carthaginian history of the wars survived, too, and we know that pro-Carthaginian (or at least anti-Roman) histories existed in the second century BC, mentioned by Polybius. These are now long lost, with only a few fragments remaining in later sources. So, though Carthage is embedded in the history of Latin literature, only the Roman view survives. The First Punic War lasted over 20 years, exhausting both sides. As a result, it’s often compared to the First World War in its devastating, and unintended, impact. Polybius described the combatants as “like two equally matched boxers, both courageous, fighting it out for a prize”. At the war’s end in 241 BC – Rome having claimed Sicily, but only briefly invaded north Africa – both sides were almost bankrupt and had lost tens of thousands of soldiers and marines. The peace was only ever likely to be temporary, giving the two cities time to regroup. Because Carthage had lost, it had to pay war indemnity to Rome for 10 years – and the peace held for only a few years longer than the payments continued. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/HNNYGBWeb-Ready-7f6a4db.jpg" width="5400" height="3600" alt="A painting showing a man dressed in a pink gown and turban, riding an elephant across a field, surrounded by a large crowd of people carrying spears. In the background, there are some trees, mountains and a cloudy sky" title="A 16th-century fresco shows the Carthaginian general Hannibal on an elephant during his 218 BC offensive into the Roman heartland, epitomising the bravery attributed to his people by Rome (Image by Alamy)" /> The Second Punic War between the two great cities began just 23 years after the end of the first. The Carthaginian general Hannibal, son of the famous commander Hamilcar Barca, led an army into Italy and challenged the power of Rome in its heartland. That he did this in an attempt to protect the Carthaginian lands of Spain and Africa from an imminent Roman attack in 218 BC is largely forgotten. History blames Hannibal for the war, even though our ancient sources acknowledge so much confusion around the actual causes of the conflict that, just 60 years later, Polybius referred to the details as “the common gossip of a barber shop”. This was contested history in action – and we know today, more than ever, that historical ‘truth’ is not always easy to come by. When Hannibal crossed the Alps with war elephants, horses and an army, he created a legend for posterity – and sparked mayhem in Italy. Between 218 and 216 BC, he won over to his side forces formerly allied with Rome, and defeated Roman armies in battle after battle. The Roman memory of Hannibal and the challenge he presented to their state in these years really epitomises how much the Romans created themselves in the face of their battles with Carthage. In the Roman mind, Hannibal was the perfect enemy: brave, intelligent and committed, but also cruel, treacherous and without integrity, according to Livy. It is worth noting that Livy used a famous Latin phrase – “perfidia plus quam Punica” – which translates as “a treachery more than Punic”. This epitomises the cultural stereotype that the Romans created for the Carthaginians, using the term ‘Punic’ to refer to the culture and language of Carthage. The word comes from the Latin poenus, thought to derive from the city’s founders, the Phoenicians. ‘Punic’ was an ethnic stereotype current in Latin literature by the late third and early second century BC. By the time Livy wrote his history, between 27 and 9 BC, this concept had become very important to the memory of Carthage. That’s because by then the Carthaginians no longer existed: that civilisation had been destroyed well over 100 years earlier. In Livy’s era, a new Roman colony was being built on the land taken from the Carthaginians. It was also a time when Virgil’s epic poem of Roman identity, the Aeneid, linked Dido and Aeneas – who, according to the myth, became the ancestor of the Romans – in popular memory as star-crossed lovers. The Aeneid refers to the Carthaginians as deceitful: it calls them “the double-tongued people of Tyre”, tying them to their near-eastern roots and to duplicity. The poem served the interests of the first Roman emperor, Augustus, painting the Carthaginians as the offspring of a vengeful woman, who aimed to destroy Rome. The second century AD satirist Juvenal described Hannibal as “the one-eyed commander/ perched on his monstrous beast!” For Romans of the second century, the Carthaginians had been distilled down to these two caricatures – the wily Dido and the monstrous Hannibal. Roman propaganda The Roman imperial propaganda machine so convincingly painted the Carthaginians as monsters to be destroyed, rather than rivals to be contended with, that the story of their culture is difficult to tell today. The reality is that the wars between Carthage and Rome were fought between two powerful city states, formerly allies, for control over the western Mediterranean. After Carthage was destroyed in 146 BC, the survivors scattered across Africa or were enslaved across the Mediterranean, and Carthaginian culture was slowly absorbed into the landscape of a new imperial power. Gradually, the western Mediterranean came to speak Latin, not Phoenician or Greek as many of its people had previously, and Rome dominated the region for the next 600 years. But the memory of Carthage persisted. The Aeneid, Livy’s history of Rome (Ab Urbe Condita) and the stories of epic war created a lasting, compelling memory of the Roman past. In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder’s Natural History tells us, “a statue of Hannibal may be seen in three places in [Rome] within the walls of which he alone of its national foes had hurled a spear”. Loot from Carthage decorated Rome, and the visual memory of the north African city was embedded in the stories of the battles re-enacted in public games and celebrations. During Rome’s civil wars, the general Marius fled and took refuge at Carthage, resting among the ruins. The historian Velleius Paterculus wrote that “he endured a life of poverty in a hut amid the ruins of Carthage. There, Marius, as he gazed upon Carthage, and Carthage as she beheld Marius, might well have offered consolation the one to the other.” The Romans framed their own rise to power and empire through their defeat of the Carthaginians, and these stories have preserved a narrative of the city for us today. At the end of antiquity, this memory continued to fascinate, and the idea of Carthage persevered in works ranging from those of Arabic geographers to the Renaissance translations of Latin epics. For centuries, Europeans framed their own wars in the shadow of Rome and Carthage: when Napoleon crossed the Alps in 1800 en route to the battle of Marengo in Piedmont, he echoed Hannibal’s great journey (famously depicted in David’s painting Napoleon Crossing the Alps). Each year, new scientific techniques and discoveries expand our understanding, and reveal more of a different story of the people of Carthage. But an enduring fact is that without Carthage, the Roman empire as we know it would not have existed. Eve MacDonald is senior lecturer in ancient history at Cardiff University. Her latest book, Carthage: A New History of an Ancient Empire, was published by Ebury in August
Roman homes: everything you wanted to know
Everything you wanted to know about history (podcast series)
Hannah Platts offers up a tour through the spaces that shaped daily life in the Roman world
If you could sneak a peek past the front door of a Roman home, what could you expect to find? Why was having a hole in your ceiling a clever feat of engineering in the ancient world? How could sharing a communal toilet actually still be a very private act, and why was central heating a luxury in ancient Rome? Emily Briffett is joined by historian Dr Hannah Platts, as they step inside the ancient Roman home to uncover more.
The overshadowed ancient empire that rivalled Rome with maritime might and an iron fist
Historian Josephine Quinn explores how the Phoenicians and their great colony, Carthage, built a maritime empire that once overshadowed both Greece and Rome
The Phoenicians founded one of antiquity’s greatest Mediterranean powers. An ambitious and powerful network of seafaring traders along the eastern Mediterranean coast, they built a commercial empire whose crowning capital was Carthage: a city that rivalled (and for much of its history outshone) both ancient Greece and Rome. It was from here that they imposed a ruthless influence across the region. “I feel like this is something that has been lost in ancient histories that move from Greece first to Rome second. They miss out this massive third power, which was sometimes bigger than both,” says historian Josephine Quinn, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. But this great power began only as a cluster of small port cities, overshadowed by mighty neighbours. So how did the Phoenicians rise to command vast trade routes, create colonies across the western Mediterranean, and challenge the future dominance of Rome? The Phoenicians: masters of the seas Centred on the harbours of modern-day Lebanon and Syria – notably Tyre, Sidon and Byblos – the early Phoenicians developed a reputation as “extraordinary navigators”. “They discovered the Pole Star and founded settlements in the western Mediterranean long before the Greeks were sailing around the region,” explains Quinn. Read more | Ancient Roman theatre was a powerful weapon of empire, so why were actors lives so tragic? As pioneers of open-sea sailing who steered by the stars, they also proved formidable traders. They carried cedar wood, glassware, textiles and most famously purple dye made from murex shells – a commodity so costly that it became the colour of kings. For centuries they acted as middlemen of the Mediterranean, linking Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece and beyond. Their alphabet, a streamlined script of 22 letters, spread westward and would later form the basis of Greek and Latin writing systems. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-122321640-58d95d9-e1759403532776.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 4th-century BC relief depicts a Phoenician merchant ship, highlighting the seafaring skills that made the Phoenicians some of the most influential traders of the ancient Mediterranean. Their maritime networks connected cities from Carthage to Cyprus, spreading goods, ideas, and culture." title="Relief portraying Phoenician merchant ship" /> From survivors to empire-builders In their early centuries, Phoenician cities were indeed overshadowed by powerful neighbours. “During the Bronze Age, they were stuck in between enormous empires: the Egyptians, the Hittites and the Babylonians,” says Quinn. Phoenician independence was precarious, and kings of Tyre or Sidon appear in surviving letters pleading with pharaohs or paying tribute. But around 1200 BC, the great Bronze Age states collapsed: Egyptian power waned, the Hittites disappeared, and Mycenaean Greece fell into turmoil. Read more | A Bronze Age Brexit: why did these Britons mysteriously cut themselves off from Europe? This so-called ‘Bronze Age collapse’ remains the subject of debate among historians and archaeologists, but whatever its cause, the Phoenicians emerged as the main beneficiaries. “Once those kings disappeared, that’s when they had the motivation and knowledge to really take advantage and come into their own,” Quinn explains. This resulting ‘golden age’ of Phoenician power, spanning roughly 1000–500 BC, saw their colonies multiply and their ships travel further than ever before. Westward expansion The Phoenicians sailed beyond the Levant and into the central and western Mediterranean, establishing colonies on the islands of Cyprus, Malta, Sicily and Sardinia, as well in north Africa and on the Iberian Peninsula. Crucially, it was in these colonies that the settlers founded a chain of new cities which, according to Quinn, became “even more powerful and wealthy than their Phoenician mother cities”. It was this gradual westward shift that marked the rise of Carthage. 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 Carthage: a mega city of the Mediterranean Founded around 800 BC by settlers from Tyre, Carthage (in modern-day Tunisia) grew into a true superpower. Its location, with access to both the Mediterranean and rich north African hinterlands, made it a commercial crossroads. “Carthage was a mega-city, and it controlled trade and shipping in most of the western Mediterranean,” Quinn explains. By the fifth century BC, Carthage had eclipsed Tyre and Sidon. At its height, it may have housed as many as 400,000 inhabitants, dwarfing most Greek poleis. Its sphere of influence stretched across north Africa, Spain, Sardinia and Sicily. Its merchants dominated trade, and its powerful navy made Carthage the master of western waters. Carthage was also culturally distinctive. Though founded by Phoenicians, it developed its own traditions, religion and political system. Its oligarchic government, centred on a council of elites, was described by Aristotle as one of the best-ordered constitutions of his time. Read more | 14 influential ancient Greeks But Carthage’s dominance rested not just on commerce and control of economic routes. It also wielded great military power. Its war fleets patrolled trade routes, and treaties spelled out its control. “We have various Carthaginian treaties that talk about how people who are not Carthaginians should not go past certain ports. And then there’s a wonderful Greek author, Eratosthenes, who explains that if you did, Carthaginian ships would just come along and toss you into the sea. So they really enforced their control … it really was their sea,” Quinn says. The city’s power extended inland, too. Carthage employed mercenary armies to defend its territories and fight its wars. Wealth from trade paid for soldiers, ships and fortifications, cementing its dominance. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-804448900-14b8416-e1759403684826.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 19th-century illustration portrays Carthaginian general Hannibal leading his army — and famously, his war elephants — across the Alps in 218 BC. One of the boldest manoeuvres in military history, it set the stage for a string of victories against Rome during the Second Punic War, including Cannae in 216 BC." title="Hannibal And His War Elephants Crossing The Alps 218 BC (19th Century)" /> Rome’s greatest rival? From the third century BC, Rome and Carthage collided in the Punic Wars – three great conflicts that shaped the trajectory of the Mediterranean. At the outset, Rome was still a regional power in Italy, while Carthage commanded fleets, colonies and enormous wealth. The wars were brutal, encompassing sea battles that destroyed entire navies, sieges that starved cities, and campaigns that swept across Spain and north Africa. The most famous episode came when the powerful general Hannibal led Carthaginian armies – as well as elephants – over the Alps to devastate his enemies. But Rome was able to withstand the attacks, and after more than a century of intermittent war, it crushed Carthage in 146 BC, razing the city and claiming its empire. Read more | This ancient goddess commanded a Wonder of the World – but why did she have thirty breasts? “You can’t underestimate the power of Carthage in the west and what an extraordinary task it was for the Romans to actually overtake them in the end,” says Quinn. Now, Carthage is known to many as Rome’s defeated enemy, while the Phoenicians are reduced to an obscure and mysterious precursor. But for hundreds of years before Rome’s rise, the Mediterranean was already shaped by the Phoenician cities and the maritime empire of Carthage: a power that wielded its might with an iron fist, and for much of its history, stood taller than either of its more famous rivals. Josephine Quinn was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Ancient Roman theatre: everything you wanted to know
From Plautus and Terence to the bawdy world of mime, Jessica Clarke introduces the theatrical world of the ancient superpower – and considers how its legacy continues to shape drama and performance today
Who went to the theatre in ancient Rome – and what kind of spectacle would they have expected to see? And did the drama performed on stage reflect the politics, society and culture of the day? Emily Briffett and historian Jessica Clarke peer behind the metaphorical curtain of ancient Rome’s theatres, to explore the plays, playwrights, and performances that entertained the empire.
Alice Roberts: “Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures”
Alice Roberts speaks to Danny Bird about the evolution of the new religion that swept across the Roman empire and beyond
Danny Bird: What made you decide to write about the collapse of the western Roman empire and the rise of Christianity? Alice Roberts: I’ve long been fascinated by this historical period, especially in Britain, where written records are scarce. This book grew from my interest in burial archaeology, shaped by excavations I took part in 20 years ago on a Welsh cliff. Bones were eroding from the cliff face, and we uncovered cist graves – stone-lined, coffin-like structures – some dating from as early as the fifth century. One grave even had a stone lid carved with a simple cross. These early Christian burials sparked my curiosity. More recently, I visited an excavation at Llantwit Major, where archaeologists are investigating what may be Britain’s earliest monastery, possibly dating to the fifth century. This raised further questions: why was Christianity spreading so early? And who was behind it? Rather than relying on broad generalisations, my book focuses on individuals: the people who carried Christianity across regions, and their motives. A story that began with burials in Wales led me across the Roman world from Istanbul (formerly Constantinople) to Alexandria, aiming to find out how Christianity spread so widely, and what that reveals about the fall of the western Roman empire. Christianity presents itself as a faith for the powerless, but your book suggests that it was adopted by urban elites in its early centuries. How does this challenge the mythology surrounding its origins? It stands in stark contrast, really. It’s a tricky point, because those writing about Christianity were necessarily literate members of the elite. So, from the outset, we’re seeing a movement that appears to have spread among relatively well-off individuals. By the fourth century, it had clearly reached the highest echelons of Roman society. Emperor Constantine had begun to take notice, convening a council of bishops in AD 325. But even in the earliest years, this was a movement involving influential figures. Take Saint Paul – or Saul, as he was originally known. One of his first actions was to meet the governor of Cyprus – not preaching to the poor but engaging with powerful individuals in the Roman empire who had the means to support him. The governor then sent him back to what is now Turkey to reconnect with his family. It seems that Paul recognised that patronage by adopting the governor’s name, ‘Paulus’ – which is a very Roman thing to do when offered someone’s backing. What’s your take on Constantine? Is it right to describe him as the ‘Christian emperor’? It’s not as straightforward as it seems. We have a biography written after his death by Eusebius, who explicitly claims that Constantine was Christian and experienced a conversion on the way to the battle of the Milvian Bridge. Eusebius describes Constantine having a vision and carrying a Chi-Rho [a combination of chi and rho, the first two letters of the Greek word for Christ] into battle, supposedly with Christ supporting him. It’s quite striking, because at that point the context is entirely military: Christ becomes someone you want on your side as you move to defeat the emperor in Rome and claim sole rule. (Constantine was never destined to be emperor; he effectively eliminated the other three rulers until he was the last man standing.) Eusebius asserts that Constantine’s conversion occurred en route to that decisive battle. Afterwards, Constantine erected a triumphal arch in Rome. If the vision and conversion had truly occurred en route to the Milvian Bridge, you might expect some Christian symbolism on that arch – but there’s none. Instead, it’s full of traditional Roman iconography. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-486776899webready-38d8437.jpg" width="4369" height="2913" alt="Did Constantine’s (above left) use of the Chi-Rho symbol indicate his Christian faith, or was that a later interpretation? (Image by Getty Images)" title="Did Constantine’s (above left) use of the Chi-Rho symbol indicate his Christian faith, or was that a later interpretation? (Image by Getty Images)" /> What’s important to remember is that none of this history comes to us without agenda. Any written account, then or now, reflects the perspective of its author. Eusebius – a bishop – clearly had reasons to portray Constantine as a committed Christian. However, when you examine Constantine’s broader communications – particularly coins, which were vital tools of imperial messaging in a largely illiterate empire – you see something different. His coins continued to depict Roman gods including Sol, to whom he appeared especially drawn, well after his supposed conversion. That led me to investigate the Chi-Rho more closely. More than 1,000 different coin designs were minted during Constantine’s reign, and only a handful bear the Chi-Rho. Even on those coins, it appears in subtle ways: on a military standard, on a helmet – all very martial in character. Read more | “The Roman empire cannot have been governed by a series of psychopaths. It would not have survived”: Mary Beard on Roman Emperors What surprised me most was discovering the Chi-Rho’s ancient origins. The symbol appears in pre-Christian literature and papyri. There’s even one on a Greek bust dating back to a time before the supposed birth date of Jesus Christ. The most plausible explanation from the papyri is that Chi-Rho was originally an abbreviation for the Greek word archōn, meaning ‘ruler’, not Christos as Eusebius claimed. So even if Constantine did carry the symbol into battle, did it mean Christ? Or was that the first time anyone interpreted it that way? Up until then, it meant something else entirely. And we can’t even be sure he used it in the battle. Another contemporary account says he carried a cross, not a Chi-Rho. Why do you think the early Roman church was able to so deftly fill the power vacuum as imperial rule declined? Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures. Early on, it functioned like a collegium – a Roman guild – offering social support, patronage and mutual aid, just as Roman professional associations did. This model suited the well-to-do among Roman society, and helped embed Christianity within everyday life. As elites adopted Christianity, it became tightly woven into their world. Roman aristocrats were educated in the liberal arts, and expected to govern provinces and cities. Over time, church institutions began to provide this same education, adding scripture to the traditional Roman curriculum, the cursus honorum, which fast-tracked noble-born Roman men into various civic offices. Christianity thus became the default cultural and ideological framework for elite careers. By the fifth century, bishops had effectively become city administrators, assuming roles once held by imperial officials – such as distributing the grain dole. Rather than creating something entirely new, Christianity absorbed and continued Roman civic functions. This fusion made the church remarkably resilient. As the western Roman empire fragmented, Christian bishops continued running cities. In Gaul, for instance, elite families retained their status across the Roman, Visigothic and Frankish regimes. Individuals such as Saint Sidonius Apollinaris exemplify this continuity, remaining influential under the shifting political circumstances. It’s unlikely that anyone at the time consciously planned to create a resilient ideological-administrative system that could survive the empire’s collapse. They were probably more concerned with preserving their own careers and ensuring opportunities for their children. For instance, elite Roman families would have been thinking pragmatically about how to secure a future for their sons amid instability. Of course, reducing everything to economics would be simplistic. Christianity was also a compelling system of ideas and belief. Many were genuinely devout, drawn to the religion for spiritual reasons, whereas others were more focused on its social and political benefits. These different motivations coexisted and contributed to Christianity’s development. There was no single way to be a Roman Christian. Is this Roman-ness still evident in Christian practice and ritual? The fact that the pope still rules from Rome and has the title of Pontifex Maximus (the most senior priestly rank in the ancient Roman religion), together with the church’s use of Latin and its adoption of imperial purple, all perpetuates this legacy. Plus, high-ranking members of the church are often canonised, echoing the Roman practice of deifying emperors. I traced some of these continuing rituals in my earlier books. When writing Buried (2022), I looked at Roman graveside feasting rituals, particularly at a burial in Caerleon, south-east Wales. A pipe from the surface was used by mourners to pour libations into the grave while holding feasts there – not just on the day of the funeral, but also nine days and 50 days afterwards, as well as on set days for honouring the dead. When I mentioned this pipe burial to my Russian friend Natasha, who grew up in Siberia, she exclaimed: “We did that!” She described a day when families would gather with food in cemeteries, the adults drinking vodka. She believed this was a Russian Orthodox celebration called ‘Parents’ Day’. When I researched further, I discovered that it mirrored the Parentalia festival of the ancestors in the pre-Christian Roman calendar. Read more | Roman gods and goddesses: 17 of the most important deities of ancient Rome These traditions carried over into Christian practice. And such customs persist in both the Greek and Russian Orthodox calendars, as well as in the Catholic church and the Church of England. For instance, the moveable feast known as Pentecost occurs 50 days after Easter; elements of Pentecost recall Rosalia, an ancient Roman summer day of the dead, when graves were decorated with roses. It’s another example of Roman traditions persisting in Christian ritual to this day. A few weeks ago, I happened to be in Orvieto, Italy, on Pentecost. A friend told me to look out for the medieval procession, so I stayed to watch. It was remarkable – people in full medieval dress parading through the streets to the cathedral, and women carrying great armfuls of flowers. The tradition continues. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/A0R03Cwebready-245b12f.jpg" width="5020" height="3347" alt="Children parade with flowers at the Sciò la Pica Pentecost festival in Monterubbiano. Like many other Italian celebrations, this tradition seems to be rooted in ancient pre-Christian beliefs (Image by Alamy)" title="Children parade with flowers at the Sciò la Pica Pentecost festival in Monterubbiano. Like many other Italian celebrations, this tradition seems to be rooted in ancient pre-Christian beliefs (Image by Alamy)" /> What was the relationship between Christianity and pre-existing faiths and philosophical thought? The early Christians were Jewish, and Christianity emerged within a Hellenistic-Roman context. These influences were deeply intertwined. Greek philosophy played a huge role in shaping Christian ideas but, from the start, theology was diverse and fragmented. To maintain unity and authority, the early church had to suppress doctrinal splits. Councils such as that at Nicaea (now İznik, Turkey) in AD 325 were about enforcing consensus, not simply defining belief. Still, divisions continued: between east and west, and, much later, Protestant and Catholic, because interpretation remained contested. Claims of Christianity’s radical uniqueness are often overstated. There are strong parallels with other cults, such as that of Mithras, and even Roman emperors’ devotion to a single god in the classical pantheon suggests a tendency towards monotheism. The term ‘paganism’ to describe non-Christian beliefs is a Christian invention, originally derogatory, which implied that the individuals who adhered to such beliefs were rustic or not ‘soldiers’ of Christ. We still use it for lack of a better alternative, though it defines by exclusion. The idea that Christianity invented charity is false, too. Roman society valued public service, and philanthropy was expected, especially from the elite. Caring for the vulnerable was essential to civic life. What Christianity did was adapt to the needs of growing urban centres. As cities expanded and poverty increased, the church offered a system to manage – not eliminate – urban destitution. Supporting the poor served both moral and political aims, helping to extract wealth from the rich while reinforcing the church’s influence. How important were Roman bishops and saints in entrenching the hegemony of Christianity more widely? That was very evident in the Celtic west, where Christianity was spreading as the Roman empire disintegrated, in locations that the empire never fully reached – places such as Ireland. You see early Christianity spreading through individuals with very Roman names – including Patricius, otherwise known as Saint Patrick. There are fascinating tales of voyaging saints, often travelling in small coracles, sometimes even with stone coffins. These journeys were just a continuation of what the elite were already doing. They were extremely well connected. In the hagiographies and accounts of these voyages, the saints are rarely heading to places where no Christian has ever been. By the time we hear about these saints, they’re visiting other Christians, often kings. These so-called ‘missionary’ journeys often involved being welcomed at royal courts. It’s always been about nobility and the interconnectedness of powerful families. Some of these saints were bishops, some kings; some began as generals and became bishops. Take, for example, Germanus of Auxerre. He remained rather military in outlook. At the request of the bishop of Rome, he travelled to Britain to deal with the growing divergence in Christian practice, which was causing concerns that the British might splinter away from the church in Rome. So Germanus was sent to bring them back in line, arriving with troops and even joining some battles. It’s striking how these figures, often romanticised as humble ascetics, were anything but isolated. They didn’t retreat from the world; instead, they established themselves close to the seats of power – for example, Saint Cuthbert on Inner Farne island, overlooking Bamburgh Castle. Do you think it’s time we stopped talking about the ‘fall of Rome’ and start seeing it more as a rebrand? I absolutely do. You’ve hit the nail on the head. This is essentially the thesis of my book. The Roman empire, particularly in the east, continued for another thousand years until the Ottomans entered Constantinople in 1453, marking its end. When the Ottomans took that city, the sultans declared themselves to be the Qaisar-e-Rum (‘Caesars of Rome’). In other words, they saw themselves as the inheritors of that legacy. In the west, the empire officially disintegrated in the fifth century but, as we’ve discussed, much of its culture endured and was repurposed by those who filled the power vacuum. If we define the empire as the emperor, then that connection is severed. But if we understand the empire as the broader system – its administration, education and social hierarchy – then that continues under the Roman church. Read more | Religion in Roman Britain: spreading the word of the gods You’re a former president of Humanists UK and one of Britain’s best-known atheists. How did that shape your approach to this foundational era of Christian history? I hope it didn’t, because I’m trying to approach this history by meeting people on their own terms and understanding why this set of ideas was being spread. In the book, I focus mainly on the political, economic and cultural perspectives. In some ways, that means I’m not approaching it from a position of personal investment in the ideas themselves, though I’m fascinated by them. I know a fair bit about them, having been brought up as a Christian, and being immersed in that tradition. I’m especially interested in where those traditions come from – for example, how some church festivals today trace back to pre-Christian times. I think Christianity is a compelling and important part of our culture. As society becomes more secular, and biblical knowledge declines, we risk losing sight of Christian history. Yet there’s still, I feel, a tendency to obscure the history of early Christianity, treating it as if it simply appeared fully formed. For me, it’s about cultural evolution: understanding where it began, who adopted it and who helped spread it. I hope I’ve explored that as objectively as possible. Alice Roberts is an anthropologist, broadcaster and author, based at the University of Birmingham. Her newest Channel 4 series, Roman Empire by Train, will air early in 2026. She will be touring the UK with her new book, Domination, from August to November. alice-roberts.co.uk/tour This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
On the steps of a sacred temple, Cleopatra's feud with her sister came to a blood-soaked end
Cleopatra persuaded Mark Antony to order the execution of her sister Arsinoe IV on the steps of one of antiquity’s greatest temples, breaking the sacred law of sanctuary and leaving behind a mystery that still unsettles historians today
At the peak of its glory, the Temple of Artemis towered above the ancient city of Ephesus standing as a vast sanctuary of marble and gold that drew pilgrims from across the Mediterranean. Counted among the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, it was famed not only for its size and splendour but also for its role as a place of inviolable refuge. Today, the site in modern-day Turkey is hauntingly empty. “People go to Ephesus today and there is pretty much just a single column that’s left standing,” says historian Bettany Hughes, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. “It’s a bit marshy, it feels a little bit neglected. But what you are looking down on is just the inner sanctuary of this extraordinary temple.” Earthquakes and centuries of decay might have reduced it to crumbled ruins, but in the 1st century BC, the temple was one of the most sacred places in the ancient world – which makes what happened there to Cleopatra’s younger sister, Arsinoe IV, all the more extraordinary. Cleopatra and Arsinoe: a dynasty built on blood The Ptolemaic dynasty, which ruled Egypt from the death of Alexander the Great in the 4th century BC until Cleopatra’s own fall in 30 BC, was notorious for its brutality. Brothers and sisters often married each other in imitation of the ancient pharaohs of a bygone era. But such intimacy didn’t prevent family members from murdering, exiling or poisoning one another to secure power. Read more | The face of Cleopatra: what did she look like, and was she really so beautiful? The Ptolemaic dynasty was infamous for turning siblings into rivals. Cleopatra herself had to fight her own brothers and sisters to secure the throne. Her younger brother Ptolemy XIII initially ruled alongside her, but the two soon fell into open conflict. In 48 BC, Julius Caesar arrived in Alexandria while pursuing his enemy Pompey during Rome’s civil war. Drawn into Egypt’s dynastic struggle, he chose to support Cleopatra’s claim. The city erupted into what became known as the Alexandrian War, a chaotic siege fought between Caesar’s troops, Cleopatra’s supporters, and Ptolemy XIII’s forces. During the fighting, Ptolemy was forced to flee after his defeat at the battle of the Nile and then drowned in the river. Afterward, Cleopatra ruled jointly with another brother, Ptolemy XIV, but he died only a few years later in suspicious circumstances, leaving her sole ruler. 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 Arsinoe IV: a sister turned rival Amid this conflict, Cleopatra’s younger sister Arsinoe IV emerged as another claimant. She had herself proclaimed queen in opposition to Cleopatra and, at one point, even commanded Egyptian troops against Caesar’s forces. For a brief time, she was celebrated in Alexandria as a symbol of resistance. When Caesar eventually brought the fighting under control and secured Cleopatra’s throne, Arsinoe was captured. Remarkably, he spared her life, sending her into exile at Ephesus instead of executing her – a decision that would later come back to haunt Cleopatra. Read more | Cleopatra, Julius Caesar and Mark Antony: how the last pharaoh's love affairs shaped Ancient Egypt's fate Nevertheless, by the 40s BC, Cleopatra’s position was secure thanks to her alliance with Mark Antony, one of the most powerful men in Rome. Arsinoe, however, remained a thorny problem. As long as she lived, Cleopatra’s opponents might use her as a political pawn. The goddess of Ephesus If Arsinoe hoped anywhere could protect her, it was the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus. “The Artemis who was worshiped in Ephesus was an Eastern Artemis, a direct descendant of the great nature goddesses of the eastern world. As soon as you see an image [of her] you realize just how feisty she is,” Hughes explains. Unlike the Greek huntress Artemis or the Roman Diana, the Ephesian goddess was depicted as a motherly figure, associated with fertility and protection. Her sanctuary had a long tradition of offering asylum. Read more | The gods and their whims: your guide to ancient Greek religion “People go to the Temple of Artemis to seek sanctuary,” say Hughes, who adds that this included some famous names. “Some of the murderers of Julius Caesar, and during the great Persian wars at the time of the Classical Greeks, the children of Xerxes are taken there and are hidden in the temple,” Hughes notes. The temple itself was immense – four times the size of the Parthenon in Athens – and its right of asylum was respected across the Mediterranean. For Arsinoe, it seemed the one place even Cleopatra could not touch her. “Arsinoe knows that the goddess offers people sanctuary, particularly women,” says Hughes. “So Arsinoe IV thinks … where in the world can I go where I’ll be safe? I’ll go to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-463964119-dba4381-e1756985966853.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 1930s illustration recreates the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Located in modern-day Turkey, the temple was famed for its grand scale and ornate design before its destruction in antiquity." title="The Temple of Artemis, Ephesus, Turkey, 1933-1934." /> Murder on the temple steps At first, Arsinoe’s gamble worked. She was granted sanctuary, her life formally protected by Artemis. But Cleopatra was determined. “Arsinoe is given sanctuary in the temple, but even the great Goddess Artemis is not a match for Cleopatra,” say Hughes. “We don’t know exactly what happened. We don’t know whether she threatened somebody or bribed them, but somehow Arsinoe is pulled out of the temple and murdered on the temple steps on the order of Cleopatra,” Hughes explains. The act was shocking not just for its violence but for its setting. To kill on the steps of the Temple of Artemis was to trample one of the most sacred laws of the ancient Mediterranean. Why it shocked the ancient world For centuries, sanctuary at Ephesus had been respected. Even violent criminals and defeated kings could claim the goddess’s protection. To drag Arsinoe out of the temple and execute her was unprecedented. “It was a sanctuary, but not if you’re up against a character who does not like ‘no’ for an answer like Cleopatra,” Hughes remarks. The exact details remain mysterious. Did Antony’s soldiers storm the temple? Were the priests bribed or threatened? Did local officials collude in favour of Cleopatra? The sources are unclear. All that is clear is that Arsinoe was pulled from the temple and murdered on its steps – and that the outrage echoed across the ancient world. The ancient politics of murder Why take such a risk? For Cleopatra, the answer was survival. With Antony at her side, she had to secure Egypt’s throne and prevent any rival claimant from undermining her. Arsinoe’s very existence threatened that. Unlike Cleopatra, whose dramatic suicide in 30 BC ended the Ptolemaic dynasty, Arsinoe slipped into history as both victim and symbol. Later writers cast her as the innocent sister destroyed by Cleopatra’s ambition. In modern culture, she often appears as Cleopatra’s tragic foil. Read more | The legacy of Cleopatra Archaeology has even revived her story. In the early 20th century, a tomb in Ephesus was claimed by some to be Arsinoe’s final resting place, though this remains disputed. The murder of Arsinoe IV on the steps of the Temple of Artemis remains an infamous episode from antiquity. Today, only a single column rises above the marshy ground where the temple once stood. But that belies the centuries of incredible stories that the structure played host and witness to. This article is based on an interview with Bettay Hughes, speaking to Rachel Dinning on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
How Christianity came to dominate the Roman world
Alice Roberts explains how Christianity took over all aspects of Roman life – and helped perpetuate the empire
What if the 'fall' of Rome wasn’t a collapse, but a rebrand? In this episode, Alice Roberts delves into the dramatic transformation of the Roman world and the rise of Christianity, from cliffside burials in Wales to imperial politics in Constantinople. Speaking to Danny Bird, she reveals how early Christianity wasn’t a grassroots movement of the poor, but a strategic shift embraced by elites, bishops and emperors. Alice Roberts is the author of Domination: The Fall of the Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity (Simon & Schuster, 2025). Buy it now from Amazon