The official website for BBC History Magazine
Think you know everything about ancient Rome? These 25 facts will prove otherwise
Edward J Watts, author of The Romans: A 2,000-Year History, shares 25 things you need to know about one of the greatest civilisations of the ancient world – from their incredible feats of engineering to their sporting spectacles
1. The Romans lived in an independent state for more than 2,200 years According to tradition, Rome was founded in 753 BC, shortly after the beginning of the Italian Iron Age. Its inhabitants were Latin-speaking pagans who lived along the river Tiber in what is now central Italy. The empire of Trebizond, the last independent Roman kingdom descended from that state, was captured in 1461 by an Ottoman army equipped with gunpowder weapons. The people living in Trebizond also called themselves ‘Roman’, but they were Christians who lived in a city on the Black Sea coast of modern Turkey and spoke a language they called Romeika (which translates as 'Roman', but which we now call Greek). 2. The Roman empire once included all, or part of, nearly 50 countries At the empire’s greatest extent in AD 117, Roman territory stretched from what is now the Atlantic coast of Portugal to the Persian Gulf beaches in Kuwait, from southern Egypt near the current Sudanese border to northern England, and from just south of Casablanca in Morocco to the Caspian Sea shores of Azerbaijan. The land area of the Roman empire was smaller than Australia, but if one included the territorial waters controlled by Rome (as is customary with modern states) the empire would rank as the fifth-largest country on earth if it existed today. 3. As much as one-third of the world’s population lived under Roman control Late during the reign of the emperor Trajan (ruled AD 98–117), it is thought that the Roman empire reached a population of 80 million, out of a total world population of around 230 million. In modern terms, Rome’s share of the world population at that moment would be nearly equivalent to a country with the combined populations of India and China. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/2GettyImages-1369193411-fa1bfb0-e1764241964618.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A yellow, blue and red map showing the Roman empire" title="The Roman empire reached its maximum territorial extent in the early second century AD, during the reign of the emperor Trajan. The empire would rank as the fifth-largest country in the world if it existed today (Image by Getty Images)" /> 4. Rome was the first city in the world with a million residents Rome reached a population of 1 million during the first century BC, and aside from temporary population decreases caused by plagues or natural disasters, did not fall below that level until the end of the fourth century AD. This is even more remarkable considering that poor sanitation and crowded conditions meant that the city lost as much as 3 per cent of its population each year to disease – a number far greater than the birthrate. Rome’s massive population was sustained through large-scale migration from other parts of the empire, nearly every year, for five centuries. 5. Hadrian’s Wall was NOT the longest Roman wall – and nor was it the most northern Almost everyone has heard of Hadrian’s Wall, the defensive structure that once stretched 73 miles across what is now northern England. However, an even longer fortification built under Hadrian and his successor, Antoninus Pius, extended nearly 190 miles across southern Germany. It began roughly where the Rhine turns west at Mainz, and extended to meet the Danube near Regensburg. Antoninus Pius also ordered the construction of the empire’s northernmost wall – the eponymous Antonine Wall – which stretched 39 miles across what is now Scotland, from the Firth of Clyde to the Firth of Forth. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/3GettyImages-639158628-7d65967-e1764242013260.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A modern illustration depicting Hadrian’s Wall as it may have appeared during the second century AD. The 73-mile-long fortification stretched from what is now Bowness-on-Solway in Cumbria to Wallsend in Tyne and Wear (Image by Getty Images)" title="A modern illustration depicting Hadrian’s Wall as it may have appeared during the second century AD. The 73-mile-long fortification stretched from what is now Bowness-on-Solway in Cumbria to Wallsend in Tyne and Wear (Image by Getty Images)" /> 6. The Romans produced more than 25 million coins each year Following a reform instituted by joint emperors Diocletian and Maximian in AD 294, the Romans established a network of 15 mints across the empire – all the way from Londinium (London) to the Egyptian city of Alexandria. Although production slowed around 100 years later, no state in the world would again match Rome’s numismatic productivity until the 19th century. Read more | How the Romans "reversed circumcision" and 5 other shocking medical realities from the ancient empire 7. Rome’s ‘eighth hill’ is a load of old rubbish… literally The Testaccio region of Rome is now famous for its nightlife, but it takes its name from Monte Testaccio, an artificial hill that is 35 metres tall and created from the remains of ceramic shipping containers offloaded from barges along the Tiber. Most of the pottery has been dated to the period between AD 140 and 250, though the base of the hill may be much older. Despite its unusual provenance, Monte Testaccio is sometimes described as Rome’s ‘eighth hill’, in addition to the seven other hills within the city walls: the Aventine, Caelian, Capitoline, Esquiline, Palatine, Quirinal and Viminal hills. WATCH | Dr David Musgrove finds out what the Romans really got up to on the loo View Green Video on the source website 8. The Pantheon is the oldest intact, continually used building in the world Originally created in the style of a conventional Roman temple in the first century BC, the Pantheon was rebuilt under the direction of the emperor Hadrian in the AD 120s. The ground level was originally much lower than it is today, and when one approached the structure from the front, it appeared to be a normal temple because the structure’s 43-metre-wide dome was obscured by its triangular pediment (gable). Nearly two millennia later, the Pantheon’s dome remains the largest of its kind in the world – its survival no doubt linked to the decision to convert the building into a Christian church in AD 609. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/4GettyImages-1211436528-b8e4a0d-e1764242052537.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An aerial photograph of the Pantheon in Rome. It has a large dome roof with a hole in the top and is surrounded by several other red roofed buildings" title="Despite being nearly 2,000 years old, the Pantheon boasts the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world (Image by Getty Images)" /> 9. There was once a giant city plan, carved on marble blocks, that showed every street and building in Rome Between AD 203 and 211, the emperor Septimius Severus ordered the creation of a 234-metre-square map of the city of Rome that included accurate renderings of the ground-floor architectural plans for every building in the city. Carved on marble blocks, the map was hung on a wall of the Temple of Peace, which now forms the northern exterior of the Basilica of St Cosmas and Damian. As of 2025, more than a thousand fragments of the Severan Marble Plan have been discovered since the Renaissance, representing around 10 per cent of the original map. Because many of these include the name of the building they represent, it has been extremely useful for archaeologists looking to identify newly discovered architectural remains. Today, the fragments are on display in the new Museo della Forma Urbis on Rome’s Caelian Hill. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/5GettyImages-1925908763-d918fdc-e1764242087895.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of large white stone fragments with inscriptions on them" title="More than a thousand fragments of the Forma Urbis Romae (‘The Shape of the City of Rome’) have been discovered, giving researchers a remarkable window into early third-century AD Rome (Image by Getty Images)" /> 10. Rome is still surrounded by its ancient walls The Aurelian Walls that surround the city of Rome were built in the AD 270s, but they continued to be used by the city’s defenders until the late 19th century. The breaching of the walls by the army of the Kingdom of Italy in September of 1870 represented the final step in Italian unification. 11. You can find an ancient wall in McDonald’s The Servian Walls of the fourth century BC may be less famous than the Aurelian Walls, but they have much more character. Stretching around 12 miles, multiple fragments of the walls still speckle the modern city of Rome. The largest fragment can be found next to Termini Station, but the most memorable remains are now found in the McDonald’s restaurant on the train station’s lower level. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/6Termini-McDonalds5-c5a8b6d-e1764242135272.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of a McDonald's ordering screen and behind it there is a large, old brick wall" title="Burger, fries… and a fourth-century BC wall? Visitors to the Roma Termini station branch of McDonald’s can marvel at a feat of ancient engineering while they get their fast food fix (Image by Edward J Watts)" /> 12. Rome’s walls were formidable… but Constantinople’s were MUCH more difficult to breach Rome has been captured numerous times since the Aurelian Walls were built, but the city of Constantinople (modern Istanbul, Turkey) – which became the Roman empire’s eastern capital in AD 330 – has fallen to invaders on just three occasions. The city remained under Roman control for nearly 900 years until its walls were breached by the soldiers of the Fourth Crusade in 1204, before being recaptured by the Romans in 1261. It then fell to the Ottomans in 1453, but has not been seized since. 13. The Roman empire was home to one of the most fought-over cities in the world Although only 134 miles from Constantinople, Adrianople (modern Edirne, Turkey) has been the site of at least 15 different battles and sieges. The last two occurred in 1913 when Bulgaria captured the city from the Ottoman empire before losing it again later that year. 14. The Colosseum was the largest (but not the only) amphitheatre Rome’s Flavian Amphitheatre, or Colosseum, was once capable of seating 50,000 people, making it almost 30 per cent larger than the empire’s next-largest arena in Capua. But the Colosseum was unique because of its remarkable size, not because amphitheatres were rare. In fact, the remains of more than 230 amphitheatres have been found in former Roman cities, stretching all the way from Britain to Israel. One such example in Cahors, France, was discovered during the construction of a car park that is now aptly named the Parking Amphithéâtre. Another, found in suburban Paris, now serves as the courtyard for a high school. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-1451938726-d5b4185-e1764246957408.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A computer generated image of the Colosseum, a large circular building with several arches" title="A computer-generated image depicting the Colosseum during its ancient heyday. The amphitheatre is now a World Heritage Site and a symbol of both modern Italy and ancient Rome (Image by Getty Images)" /> 15. Arenas weren’t just for gladiator fights Thanks in part to the 2000 movie Gladiator and its recent sequel, Roman amphitheatres are now commonly associated with clashes between sandal-wearing warriors. However, gladiator battles weren’t the only events to take place in these ancient arenas. In fact, spectators were as interested in events that displayed exotic wild animals like rhinos, lions and ‘camel-leopards’ (giraffes). The largest games on record – the 100 days of spectacles marking the opening of the Colosseum in AD 81 – saw upwards of 9,000 animals killed. Read more | Sharks in the arena? Gladiator II's real history and historical accuracy explained 16. Commodus was a much better fighter than Hollywood would have us believe In comparison to Maximus (Russell Crowe), Gladiator’s main antagonist, Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix), is depicted as an unremarkable fighter – but this is a distortion of the truth. Following a failed assassination plot orchestrated by his sister Lucilla, the real-life Commodus sent for instructors from around the world to teach him how to shoot arrows, throw javelins, and excel in hand-to-hand combat. As his skills increased, Commodus wanted to show his subjects what he could do. In one memorable display in the Colosseum, the senator Cassius Dio witnessed the emperor “dispatching, with his own hands, five hippos and two elephants in two days. He also killed rhinos and a camel-leopard”. Another time, Commodus arranged for “a hundred lions to appear in one group” and then “killed the entire hundred with exactly one hundred javelins” so that “no one saw a single extra javelin.” While Dio did not approve of these displays, even Commodus’s worst critics could not deny his talent. WATCH | Historian Alison Futrell discusses the real history behind Gladiator II View Green Video on the source website 17. Chariot racing was HUGELY popular The Circus Maximus in Rome, the main site for chariot races, adjoined the imperial palace and had seating for at least 150,000 people. On competition days, 800 horses could race in as many as 24 different contests. The last races held in the Circus Maximus took place in AD 549, but racing continued at Constantinople’s 100,000-seater Hippodrome into the 13th century. 18. Chariot racing was the football of its day Rome originally had four charioteer teams: the Reds, Whites, Greens and Blues. The Reds and Whites were the most historic, but they were surpassed in prominence by the Greens and Blues during the first century AD. The teams had franchises that competed in major cities across the empire and even boasted organised groups of supporters (akin to modern football ultras) prone to riotous behaviour. Star drivers, who could often change teams during their careers, frequently earned enormous amounts of money. The tombstone of Gaius Appuleius Diocles, one of the greatest charioteers of the second century AD, mentions that he won 1,462 races and earned 35,863,120 sesterces in prizes across a 24-year career spent racing for the Reds, Whites and Greens. Although he is believed to have died at the age of 42 and would have kept only a portion of his winnings, his career earnings exceeded the fortunes of most Roman senators. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/GettyImages-520726031-6041b74-e1764247102231.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A chariot race in the Circus Maximus depicted by 19th-century painter Jean-Léon Gérôme. Star drivers could earn huge sums of money (Image by Getty Images)" title="A chariot race in the Circus Maximus depicted by 19th-century painter Jean-Léon Gérôme. Star drivers could earn huge sums of money (Image by Getty Images)" /> 19. Rome became the first large empire to enact universal citizenship In AD 212, the emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus – better known by his nickname, Caracalla – issued a law making all free people in the empire Roman citizens. The new citizens had to legally change their names to honour their new benefactor, flooding the Roman bureaucracy with tens of millions of people now bearing the name ‘Aurelius’. The reason for Caracalla’s generosity? He wanted everyone in the empire to celebrate the murder of Geta, Caracalla’s brother and co-emperor who was killed in his mother’s arms. 20. Roman trade across the Indian Ocean was hugely lucrative When we think of ancient trade, the Silk Road – the sprawling network of trade routes stretching some 4,000 miles between China and the Mediterranean – often springs to mind. Yet, it wasn’t the only source of wealth for the Romans. Merchants also travelled across the Indian Ocean to Kerala, Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka, carrying gold coins and bringing back spices and exotic animals. At times, the demand for Roman coins in India and Sri Lanka so exceeded the supply that Indian mints struck their own coins featuring the portraits of Roman imperial figures and legends written in Latin. 21. The Romans developed a sophisticated financial system From the second century BC, Roman bankers managed investment accounts that their clients could use for depositing money and making transfers. The system was so sophisticated that emperor Trajan used subsidised government loans to fund social welfare programmes in the second century AD. 22. The Romans invented some truly terrifying military technology The Romans developed a napalm-like substance commonly known as ‘Greek fire’ which was placed in hand grenades or sprayed from hoses equipped with special nozzles – usually against enemy naval forces. When the substance ignited, it even burned on water. The technology was first deployed in AD 672 and was used for more than 500 years against the navies of the Bulgars, Rus’ and Arabs. The empire lost the ability to manufacture Greek fire just before AD 1200, although no one really knows why. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/9Greekfire-madridskylitzes1-760acd4-e1764242423636.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An illustration of two boats with men in them. The boat on the left are blowing fire over the one of the right" title="A 12th-century AD depiction of Greek fire being used against the rebel Thomas the Slav in AD 821. The exact composition of this devastating incendiary substance has been lost" /> 23. The longest-serving Roman emperor was actually pretty unremarkable He ruled for 66 years between AD 962–1028, but Constantine VIII’s passions for fine food and horses meant that he took little interest in state affairs until the last three years of his life. He instead trusted his older brother and co-emperor – the much more famous and capable emperor Basil II – to govern the empire for most of their lives. Coincidentally, Basil’s term in office (AD 960–1025), is the second-longest in Roman history. Read more | Step inside the ancient Roman empire's gladiatorial arenas, and witness 24 hours of shocking violence 24. TWO emperors share the record for the shortest reign Father-and-son duo Gordian I and Gordian II ruled for a mere 22 days in AD 238. The Gordians, who were governing a province in north Africa without an army stationed there, foolishly rebelled against Maximinus Thrax – one of four other men who also claimed to be emperor that year. Although the Gordians received senatorial support in Rome, they were quickly dispatched by a general loyal to Maximinus. As for the second-shortest reign, the emperor Nepotian barely outlasted the two Gordians by holding Rome for 28 days in June of AD 350. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/10Gordian-II-238-ADEdward-Watts--Author-1d53219-e1764242478419.jpeg" width="850" height="413" alt="Coins issued by the emperor Gordian II, who – along with his father, Gordian I – ruled for just 22 days in AD 238 (Image by Edward J Watts)" title="Coins issued by the emperor Gordian II, who – along with his father, Gordian I – ruled for just 22 days in AD 238 (Image by Edward J Watts)" /> 25. It took a VERY long time for the Romans to adopt Christianity When Constantine I famously converted to Christianity in AD 312, the territory he ruled was only around 10 per cent Christian. In fact, the Roman empire did not become a Christian-majority state until the AD 390s, and some pagan-majority communities lasted long enough that they negotiated the surrender of their cities to Muslim generals in the AD 630s. The Syrian city of Harran (now part of modern Turkey) even maintained temples dedicated to its moon god into the 11th century AD. Edward J Watts is Alkiviadis Vassiliadis Endowed Chair and Distinguished Professor of History at the University of California, San Diego. He is the author of the The Romans: A 2,000-Year History (John Murray Press/Basic Books, 2025)
Who was REALLY buried at Sutton Hoo? The secrets behind the famous helmet
Who was buried inside the ship at Sutton Hoo, one of the most significant archaeological finds in British history? David Musgrove explores the enigmatic burial site and explains more about what was found inside the Suffolk mounds
HistoryExtra's David Musgrove explores the enigmatic burial site of Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, famous for its treasure-filled 27-metre ship, first excavated in 1939. The site, today managed by the National Trust and brought to life in 2021 Netflix film The Dig, continues to captivate, and highlights a dynamic period in Anglo-Saxon history. Despite the wealth of artefacts found inside the ship, the identity of the buried individual remains unknown. What are the leading theories? Discover more in this video as we look closer at the contenders, including an Anglo-Saxon king and a Byzantine soldier. Plus explore the various buried items that suggest a tantalising mix of both Christian and pre-Christian influences. Of course, we also get closer to the famous Sutton Hoo helmet, and its possible connection to the Norse god Odin. View Green Video on the source website
Kavita Puri's hidden histories: the enduring appeal of archaeological sites
"Nothing beats feeling the earth in your hands and uncovering the past", writes Kavita Puri
It was late morning, but already hot enough to warrant wearing a sun hat and sticking to the shade. I was in a quiet part of Andalucía, looking at an archaeological treasure that I visit regularly. However, this time there was more activity than usual. There were scores of people digging, others with notepads, some wearing gloves – all situated in different parts of the site. It was July and students had come from across Europe to take part in excavations. A 35-minute drive from Granada in southern Spain, the hill town of Tózar is located close to La Ruta del Califato (the Route of the Caliphate). Here, the local council recently purchased the archaeological area from a private owner. Investigations started on the land in 2012 when a Mozarabic cemetery was found. Eighty tombs of Christians who lived under Muslim rule in al-Andalus (the Iberian peninsula) were carved into the rock on the highland projecting into the surrounding landscapes. The site was believed to have been used as a cemetery between the ninth and 12th centuries. If you walk below, archaeologists have found another burial chamber, known as Dólmen Pileta de la Zorra, dating from sometime between the Neolithic and Bronze Ages. There are also remnants of ancient agricultural terraces and irrigation systems. Further below is a Mozarabic village. I chatted to the lead archaeologist who told me they recently found a small refuse dump, which she excitedly said revealed what people had eaten, the utensils they used, the tools they worked with. Clues of life. And then she led me to what was once a dwelling. In the ground were three small rectangular holes. Two weeks ago, they discovered the remains of a child in one. She says they think these were graves for babies who had died before they had been baptised, which meant they were buried in the home, rather than in the cemetery above. As she spoke, enthused by the find, she described the moment of discovery, and what it could reveal about the practices and beliefs of the past. It raised so many questions from our group: would it not have been hard for the mother to live so close to her deceased child? Read more | "Museums are magical places": Kavita Puri on a new initiative encouraging close encounters with history And not far away are trenches and fortifications used during the Spanish Civil War (1936–39). Tózar was on the Nationalist side, supporting General Franco. It was a frontline town, where the population would have been constantly aware of the presence of Republican soldiers from nearby Moclín. In one small place is so much history. Yet very few people know much about it, as it is way off the tourist trail. In the years that I have been visiting, it is now better maintained and looked after, with signs explaining the finds. The University of Granada is now one of several institutions funding the summer dig, and there seems to be renewed interest in the area and in its historical importance. With advances in digital archaeology such as three-dimensional modelling, the use of databases and virtual reality to aid analysis as well as interpretation, it is an exciting time to be an archaeologist. Applying information technology has, for example, helped in the reconstruction of the Palmyra Arch at the Temple of Baalshamin in Syria. It is also playing a critical role at the site of Herculaneum in Italy, which was preserved in volcanic ash after Mount Vesuvius erupted almost 2,000 years ago. Through the virtual unwrapping of its carbonised scrolls, scholars have been able to work out texts without damaging the delicate artefacts. But as my adventures in Spain remind me, nothing beats the thrill of feeling the earth in your hands and uncovering a remnant from the past – that magical encounter between now and then. This column was first published in the October 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
This ancient goddess commanded a Wonder of the World – but why did she have thirty breasts?
The strange and powerful symbol at the heart of one of history’s greatest temples reveals the importance of the goddess Artemis in ruling fertility, childbirth and nature
When we think of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Great Pyramid of Giza or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon may be the first examples that come to mind. However, the oldest-known versions of the list start with a landmark that is often forgotten: the Temple of Artemis. Located in the ancient city of Ephesus (near modern-day Selçuk, Turkey), this remarkable place of worship was renowned for its size and scale, standing at least 20 metres tall and boasting an enormous tile-covered roof supported by 127 marble columns. With a floor plan of some 6,000 square metres, the temple was also nearly three times as large as the famous Parthenon in Athens. But some of the most startling archaeological evidence from Ephesus isn’t concerned with the dimensions of the temple, nor its complicated history of destruction and rebuilding. Instead, much attention has been directed towards a collection of statues depicting the temple’s patron deity, Artemis. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/BAL957668-36357fc.jpg" width="7715" height="4533" alt="A large temple with a triangular roof and many columns holding it up. It sits on top of a large flight of stairs. The roof has a mural of the goddess sitting in the middle and surrounded by crowds of people and two golden horses" title="A 20th-century depiction of the Temple of Artemis, dedicated to the goddess Artemis (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> Rather than portraying the goddess as a conventional Greek beauty, the sculptures display Artemis in an altogether different guise. And, according to classicist and broadcaster Bettany Hughes, these statues bear a particularly striking physical characteristic. Read more | On the steps of a sacred temple, Cleopatra's feud with her sister came to a blood-soaked end “[This] is not the Artemis that you probably have in your heads… this image of a beautiful young woman in a tiny Greek chiton, artfully pulling a bow and arrow,” reveals Hughes on an episode of the HistoryExtra podcast. “She is a huge, towering figure, covered in birds and bees, goats and curious figures. But what none of you will miss… is that she looks as though she has 30 or so breasts.” Thirty breasts… or testicles? What need did Artemis have for 30 breasts? As well as being the goddess of hunting and the moon, Artemis was also revered as a deity of fertility and childbirth. Having a multitude of breasts would therefore be a fitting attribute for a goddess so intrinsically connected with fecundity and womanhood. In fact, even alternative theories – which suggest that the ‘breasts’ are actually bulls’ testicles or sacks of honey – bolster Artemis’s association with abundance. Both motifs have also been used as symbols of procreation in Greek art, so the ambiguity was likely deliberate. “These ancient craftsmen are likely playing a game with us,” says Hughes. Ultimately, the ancient Greeks believed that Artemis was so potent in her fertility that “she didn’t need anything as mundane as sex to procreate”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/M42ADD-2-4bc4f79.jpg" width="5560" height="3707" alt="A large statue of a woman with black hands and face, and covered in light brown bulbous growths. On her head, there is a well-shaped crown" title="A second-century AD interpretation of Artemis, with the head and hands cast in bronze added in the 19th century. Artemis is an enduring symbol of fertility (Image by Alamy)" /> A goddess of power and procreation It’s not just the features on the statue[s] itself that suggest Artemis’s importance – the location where they were discovered is notable too. Ephesus was situated on the eastern edge of the ancient Greek world, where Artemis’s association with fertility and childbirth was perhaps stronger than elsewhere. Read more | Wanderlust: Bettany Hughes on the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World “The Artemis who was worshipped in Ephesus was an ‘eastern Artemis’ – a direct descendant of the great nature goddesses of the eastern world,” says Hughes. “Any ancient traveller who went to visit the temple would have been left in no doubts of how extremely strong and potent she was.” While Artemis was regarded as a powerful goddess for all, she was particularly important to women. Care of the temple was entrusted to high priestesses, a system that Hughes likens to a “hive buzzing around, serving the queen bee”. Overall, maleness was not well tolerated at the site; it was intended to be devoted to female presence and power. An offer of sanctuary But it wasn’t just the high priestesses who devoted themselves to Artemis. Countless ordinary women also dedicated themselves to this bastion of fertility, travelling from far and wide to give offerings. “Poor female pilgrims would beat a path to Artemis’s door, and some of them would leave extraordinary gifts [and] beautiful gold offerings,” says Hughes. “They were left as temple dedications and then buried as hoards.” In some cases, the poorest pilgrims would simply leave a seashell for Artemis instead. They merely offered whatever they could, in the hope that the goddess would provide protection and preparation for marriage and childbirth. Crucially, the Temple of Artemis wasn’t solely a place for worship – it also functioned as a place of refuge for the oppressed. Hughes adds, “If you were being persecuted politically, and even if you were a woman escaping domestic abuse, you could go to sanctuary at the temple.” Read more | The gods and their whims: your guide to ancient Greek religion <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/WHA0108722-2-0d5f3b2.jpg" width="5000" height="3542" alt="A brown terracotta jug with a circular spout and no handle lays on its side on the left of the image. On the right, there is a pile of small gold-coloured coins" title="A round-mouthed jug and an assortment of Electrum coins, discovered in the foundations of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus (Image by TopFoto)" /> A forgotten legacy The Temple of Artemis was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World for good reason. Its sheer scale and beauty were matched only by the power of the goddess it honoured. To the modern eye, her many breasts might seem slightly mystifying. But – whether seen as symbols of fertility, abundance or simply a playful riddle set by ancient craftsmen – they remind us of the complexity and depth of her worship. Bettany Hughes was speaking to Rachel Dinning 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
Let’s get things done together, like the builders of Stonehenge did
To counter our modern individualist outlook, let's turn to the example of the community-minded Neolithic builders of stone circles, says Dr Susan Greaney
If somebody said to you, “take the summer off, come down to Wiltshire with everyone else you know, and let’s build a stone circle together”, would you do that? For me, that’s a tempting offer, but I’m a big fan of stone circles. I share my megalithic enthusiasm with Dr Susan Greaney, lecturer in archaeology at the University of Exeter, and a specialist in prehistoric monuments. When I asked Sue what her Life Lesson from History is, she suggested that we could learn a lot from the communal enterprise of the Neolithic stone circle builders. Commentators often opine that one of the things that we lack today is a sense of community. It seems clear that in the Neolithic period in Britain, community was at the forefront of society, or else they would never have been able to construct the enormous monumental structures that we can still see in the landscape today. So how did they do it? The monument-building frenzy <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/dreamstime167710916-5205221.jpg" width="6479" height="4292" alt="A photograph showing the standing stones at Stonehenge, with sunlight streaming through from the right hand side" title="Morning sun filters between the rocks of Stonehenge in Wiltshire, one of the most famous prehistoric monuments in Europe (Image by Dreamstime)" /> Sue describes the main period when Stonehenge was built (the third millennium BC) as a time of intense activity: “There’s a frenzy of monument building that happens all across Britain and Ireland at that time.” That frenzy must have brought people together: “These are monuments built of stone, built of timber, built of earth, and they often cluster together in what we call monument complexes - places in the country where they attract more and more monuments in one location. And it seems to be where people were gathering in large numbers to carry out these building projects, but also to take part in feasts and rituals that were related to the monuments.” Read more | Were ancient Ireland’s ‘incestuous elites’ just a myth? A tomb older than Stonehenge has new answers I’ve visited lots of these places. I’ve been wowed by the scale of Stonehenge; awed at the avenue of Avebury; been boggled by Silbury Hill; and marvelled at the Stones of Stenness and the Ring of Brodgar. It's hard not to impressed by the sheer size of these centres of monumentality: “These are extraordinary projects. I can only compare it to something like building HS2, the great big high-speed rail line. The amount of planning, equipment-sourcing and people-persuading and organisation that has to happen at this period is really interesting,” says Sue. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-1303620998-dbec0fe.jpg" width="5100" height="3400" alt="The baffling Silbury Hill in Wiltshire is the largest artificial mound in Europe and was probably completed around 2,400 BC. It’s unclear why it was built (Image by Getty Images)" title="The baffling Silbury Hill in Wiltshire is the largest artificial mound in Europe and was probably completed around 2,400 BC. It’s unclear why it was built (Image by Getty Images)" /> The scale is even more remarkable given the apparent lack of hierarchy: “From this period, we don’t have really any evidence for social hierarchy. Everything seems very egalitarian in terms of the sizes of houses, in terms of how people live.” The archaeology does not reveal grand burials or obvious rulers, but rather a society where, as Sue notes, “everything seems to point to people being relatively equal and yet they managed to achieve these great big building projects.” Why build Stonehenge? Why did these communities invest so much effort in monuments like Stonehenge? Sue’s view is that “Stonehenge is a temple aligned with the movements of the sun. In my mind it’s a culmination of a number of monuments that are built in timber. It’s actually a timber structure built in stone – it’s got woodworking joints that fitted together. For prehistoric people, they would have looked at it and gone, ‘Look, they’ve done a timber monument in stone, how radical and interesting.’” We can research the when and the how of the building of Stonehenge, but getting to the why is a harder task, As Sue explains: “It’s so difficult to know why they built it, but it must be something to do with needing to communicate with their gods. And they’re presumably related to the sun. The solar alignment is crucial to understanding Stonehenge. Perhaps they were going through a climate issue, perhaps a crops and health issue: something that meant that they were really trying to get their gods to listen to them and do what they want. It’s a kind of negotiation, it feels like, with land and with their gods and what they believe.” Read more | The Romans were blamed for massacring these Iron Age warriors. But did they actually murder themselves? How was it organised? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-639163556-b9b45c2.jpg" width="5204" height="3437" alt="A drawing showing a large circle cut into a green field with several stones around it and in it, viewed from above" title="This aerial reconstruction shows Stonehenge some time between 2900-2600 BC, when timber poles were erected and the ditch was allowed to silt up (Image by Getty Images)" /> Let’s park the motive and think about the logistics. Perhaps the most striking lesson from Stonehenge is how people managed to get things done together, on a scale that seems almost inconceivable today, and without the kind of social hierarchy or coercion often assumed necessary for such feats. “There must have been some people who were in charge of planning, whether they were people who had high status all of the time, whether they just adopted that status for the purpose of building the monument, we don’t know,” Sue says. “But some of the aspects of the project would have needed some planning in terms of time. So for example, take the feasts that happened at Durrington Walls [the seasonal settlement near Stonehenge where we assume the builders lived]. People were bringing their animals, their pigs to the feast ready to be slaughtered. Now that means you have to have those animals ready. So you have to have been organising farrowing your pigs at the right time and having enough of them to bring from your local settlement to the feast site.” The logistics didn’t end with food. “Also, they needed lots of equipment. They needed antler picks to dig the stone holes and lots of rope and timber to move the stones and to erect them. That would have taken quite a long time to procure and make. Baskets were probably used as well, so there’s not just the building and the moving of the stones, but all the planning that goes into what you need, feeding everybody, looking after the children, providing places where people could sleep.” Fascinatingly, it’s clear that people came from far and wide to participate. “We know from the isotope evidence – the chemical signatures in the teeth of the pigs and the cattle that were eaten at Durrington Walls – that those came from a whole range of different geological areas of southern Britain and possibly even into northern Britain. So people were coming from some distance away to take part in this project. I like to think of it as being a bit like Mecca in that you might once in your lifetime spend three months taking part in the great big communal building project and then you would go back to your local village and go back to your ordinary life.” Why did people join in? How did the builders of Stonehenge persuade so many people to join in? Was it coercion, religion, or simply the joy of working together? “There’s no evidence for coercion,” reckons Sue. “The evidence from Durrington Walls where they’re feasting in large quantities – they’re basically chucking away meat, they’ve got so much of it – suggests it’s quite a good time and that maybe they’re rewarding the people at least, so that taking part comes with beer, food, good company and a reason to take part in the project.” That makes me think that one of the primary drivers for this collective action was, in fact, that it was simply fun – an excuse for a knees-up and a get-together. Sue’s also found that when she has got involved in experimental archaeology projects where like-minded people come together and construct prehistoric houses, or attempt to move stones around as they did in the Neolithic. Hard work, for sure, but maybe also a good laugh. What can we learn for today? So, what can we take from this for our own lives? This is Sue’s take: “I think for me, the modern day, at least here in the west, in Britain, is really individual. Everybody’s striving to get ahead in their career or their personal life or their social lives. Everything comes down to the individual, how you can do better, how you can improve your life, how you can exercise, eat, sleep better. We don’t really focus on how we can be a better society.” Read more | Be neighbourly like a Pompeian “How we improve our lives, to me, must be more to do with how we connect with our local society, with the communities that we live in, with the workplaces we are in, and how we behave in those situations.” Let’s not imagine that there weren’t unhappy times in this period of prehistory – there is evidence of violence, for example – “but on the whole, in the late Neolithic, they seem to have achieved really extraordinary things by working together. And you think, well, if they were able to do that in the late Neolithic with limited resources and people, we could achieve so much more than what we do currently in the world.” It’s interesting that this focus on the individual over the communal is one that’s becoming a feature of these Life Lessons. Historians and archaeologists, or at least the ones who I’m inviting to choose a lesson for me, have referenced this several times (I’m thinking of my chats with Dr Jess Venner and Dr Ian Mortimer). The problem we’ve got today, if we are overly individualistic, is that we lack a collective mission. So let’s return to motive. We can’t be sure what that mission was for the Neolithic monument builders, but there was surely something that was driving these people to build Stonehenge and the other sites. For Sue, religion has to come into it. “The people building Stonehenge were doing it for religious reasons and there’s an element of negotiation there, and they were doing something because they thought they would get something back. They’re trying to achieve a better harvest or a better relationship with their sun god or something.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-804946402-f99be11.jpg" width="4288" height="2848" alt="An ancient reminder that many hands make light work? This rock art is from the Cave of the Hands, Argentina, between 13,000-9,000 BC (Image by Getty Images)" title="An ancient reminder that many hands make light work? This rock art is from the Cave of the Hands, Argentina, between 13,000-9,000 BC (Image by Getty Images)" /> Who are we negotiating with? What’s the mission that will bring us together and get us working communally? Countering climate change seems like a good one, fronting up to the reshaping of society from AI might be another. Those are massive global concerns, and they will probably either pull us all together or rip us all apart. Maybe the key thing we can take from the Neolithic for us today is the value of the physicalness of a building project in bringing people together – working practically with other people might be the collaboration hook that we need. It might answer some very modern problems too: digital isolation is a thing, social anxiety is a thing, so maybe meetings of people with the focus on an activity rather than socialising for socialising’s sake might be a win in itself. As Sue puts it, “I think building is one of those things that does bring people something practical and, with a concrete result, does help people to get involved in things. There’s something about working on something practically with other people, learning and collaborating, that is part of being human, I think. And maybe we’ve lost some of that as well in our modern lives.” So, let’s go build a stone circle, or a village hall, or a solar array, but let’s do it together, and try not to fall out while we’re at it. And let’s have a feast together after, as that’s what the Neolithic monument builders would have done. If it’s good enough for Stonehenge, it’s probably good enough for us. This article is from HistoryExtra's Life Lessons from History Substack, where leading historians share life lessons from the past to help you live a better, happier and healthier life today.
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
What have the Etruscans ever done for us?
The wealthy civilisation that dominated the Italian peninsula before the Romans left a legacy that’s full of surprises. Lucy Shipley explains why we have the Etruscans to thank for the way we write, the shape of our towns, Renaissance art – and even horror movies
They taught us to read and write (well, kind of) Long before the Romans came to dominate the ancient world – before Caesar crossed the Rubicon, Claudius invaded Britain and Vesuvius buried Pompeii – another civilisation dominated the Italian peninsula: the Etruscans. You may have heard of them, or that name may mean nothing to you. Either way, there’s little doubting their influence, continuing through the long hegemony of the Romans (who occupied Etruscan settlements) and the medieval period all the way to the modern age. The Etruscans, whose name is echoed in the modern region of Tuscany, emerged in central Italy around 900 BC. Their heartland, Etruria, lay between the rivers Tiber and Arno, and their cities were often perched on imposing plateaus with views across the fertile fields and metal-bearing soils that made their fortune. Their ports sent vessels out into the Tyrrhenian Sea (which bears their Greek name), trading as far afield as Spain and the near east. If you know the Etruscans at all, you might identify them as the villains of many a Roman tale or Greek myth. But who were these people? How did they live? And what impact do they have on our lives today? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-webready150617775-378ec5d.jpg" width="3602" height="2401" alt="A pale green and cream tablet with white letters inscribed across the top" title="An ivory writing tablet discovered in Marsiliana d'Albegna. The characters of the Etruscan alphabet inscribed along the top clearly influenced modern Latin letters (Image by Getty Images)" /> Well, a good place to start is with the words you’re reading on this page. Without the Etruscan alphabet, the Latin characters we use in modern English writing could have developed totally differently. Etruscan letters are clearly influenced by Greek and Phoenician scripts, but you’ll find you can read them with relative ease because the letter forms are so familiar. Read more | The history of Florence: Italy's Renaissance powerhouse Helpfully, a miniature ivory writing tablet dating from the seventh century BC has been discovered in a burial site at Marsiliana d’Albegna in southern Tuscany. Running along the top edge is the Etruscan alphabet, its letters inscribed in order from right to left – the Etruscan way of doing things. Some of the letter forms had not yet reached the shapes with which we’re familiar today – H, I and M look quite different, for example – but the origins of our modern Latin alphabet are plain to see. There is, though, a catch: linguists are still working to fully understand Etruscan. Though it’s easy to read many of the words, we aren’t always sure what all of them mean. We do know, though, that Etruscan wasn’t an Indo-European language – so it wasn’t related to Latin, Umbrian or most other tongues spoken in ancient Italy. There’s another problem: Etruscan texts are in short supply. We know that Etruscan people commonly wrote and read texts – from initials on weaving tools to detailed legal contracts – but, because the majority of their written works were on linen, few have survived. There are extraordinary exceptions – an incredible Etruscan religious book that was slashed to make mummy bandages, for example, and golden plaques boasting about a local politician’s gifts to a temple – but, as yet, no Etruscan poetry or history. Perhaps the Etruscan version of Herodotus is out there, waiting to be discovered. In the meantime, we have views of this people only from its enemies – all to be taken with a hearty pinch of salt. They were innovative pioneers of urban design The Etruscans were exceptional town planners – and that very success is one reason why our knowledge of their culture is so limited. Archaeological research has shown that some Etruscan settlements occupied the same sites for centuries, stretching back into the early Iron Age. Many of these places were so popular that they remained continually occupied through the Middle Ages and into the modern day. As a result, much evidence of Etruscan life lies buried beneath the winding streets of photogenic Italian towns and cities. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-475602207webready-14f01f4.jpg" width="1500" height="989" alt="The Etruscan site now known as Marzabotto, near Bologna, was constructed on a neat grid pattern in the sixth century BC – a fine example of early town planning that influenced the Romans (Image by Getty Images)" title="The Etruscan site now known as Marzabotto, near Bologna, was constructed on a neat grid pattern in the sixth century BC – a fine example of early town planning that influenced the Romans (Image by Getty Images)" /> Fortunately, thanks to some extraordinary surviving remains, we know a great deal about how Etruscan people organised their lives in towns. The site now called Marzabotto, near Bologna, seems to have been constructed as a new town in the sixth century BC. It’s built on a neat grid pattern or orthogonal plan, with a careful designation of what looks like public spaces as well as domestic buildings. There’s written evidence for a zilath, or magistrate, responsible for maintaining roads, and for another role responsible for managing weights and measures. Destroyed by invading Gauls in the fourth century AD, the site epitomises the peak of Etruscan expansion. Read more | Blood, guts and spectacle: 6 shocking events from the history of ancient Roman gladiators The Etruscans’ complex urban communities influenced those who came after. The neat patterns of Roman forts and the iconic insulae (apartment blocks) at Pompeii and elsewhere have much in common with Etruscan town-planning ideals. In fact, we know that the Etruscans occupied Pompeii, and it was during their rule that the first forum and the Temple of Apollo were built. From Marzabotto to Milton Keynes, the orthogonal or grid plan continues to influence town planning today. They created the concept of combat as entertainment It’s arguably the most iconic scene at the climax of surely the most iconic film of 2000, Ridley Scott’s multi-Oscar-winning Gladiator. Maximus (played so memorably by Russell Crowe) wanders through a wheat field into the afterlife. That episode was filmed in the Val d’Orcia in Tuscany, at the heart of the Etruscans’ ancient homeland. Coincidence? Probably. Yet, given the Etruscans’ role in the inception of gladiatorial combat, it’s rather fitting. Though gladiators will forever be synonymous with ancient Rome – thanks in no small part to Spartacus and Maximus himself – we have the Etruscans to thank for the rise of this brutal form of entertainment. There’s plenty of evidence for this – notably in a network of painted tombs at Tarquinia, about 45 miles north-west of Rome. This amazing necropolis contains numerous burial chambers decorated with images of Etruscan life and imaginings of the afterlife. Some are inspiring, drawn from sharply poignant observations of the natural world. Others are disturbing, showing the extent of human cruelty. Take the late sixth-century BC Tomb of the Augurs. This features depictions of funerary games – exhibitions of strength and athleticism in honour of the dead. You can see two nude wrestlers grappling in front of a series of three piled bowls (clearly the prizes). There’s also a referee holding the lituus, or ceremonial staff. So far, so jovial. But on another wall is a more disturbing image. A masked man holds a long leash restraining a creature who is viciously biting the legs of another man, armed with a club but hopelessly entangled. The creature may be a dog or, perhaps, a black leopard – its long tail and raking claws suggest the latter. This cruel contest between man and beast is a clear predecessor of the celebrated Roman games, for which thousands of animals were imported. The Roman names for some of the officials at these contests were derived from Etruscan, and the dreaded figure of Charon, who finished off wounded gladiators with his massive hammer, was derived from the Etruscan death demon Charun. The Romans may have refined and supercharged the concept of armed combat as entertainment. Yet they clearly didn’t invent it. They've scared us witless In 1972, horror fans immersed themselves in a ghoulish tale of intrigue and death set in central Italy, L’etrusco uccide ancora (The Etruscan Kills Again). The film tells the story of a spate of murders by a killer who gets his (or her) kicks out of dispatching young couples and leaving their corpses posed in recreations of Etruscan art. A strange conceit, you may think – but that didn’t stop The Etruscan Kills Again becoming something of a cult classic. The Etruscans and their homeland have proved to be a rich source of inspiration for modern writers and film-makers. Scenes in the astronomically successful book/film saga Twilight were set in the Etruscan hill town of Volterra. And the award-winning 2023 film La Chimera follows grave-robbers led by a down-at-heel British archaeologist attempting to steal artefacts from an Etruscan dig. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/BAL4642126webready-26b39dd.jpg" width="835" height="1240" alt="The Etruscan god of the underworld, Aita, represented in a tomb painting in Tarquinia by a man wearing a wolfskin (Image by Bridgeman Images)" title="The Etruscan god of the underworld, Aita, represented in a tomb painting in Tarquinia by a man wearing a wolfskin (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> The terrifying figures on the tomb paintings at Tarquinia have had a particularly long cultural afterlife, perhaps influencing modern depictions of werewolves. One fearsome character among them is a man wearing a wolfskin over his head, representing Aita, Etruscan god of the underworld. There are also more menacing werewolf-type Etruscan demons, including Calu who is depicted on reliefs from urns at Perugia and Volterra, often popping out of a sunken container or well and taking on a group of gathered heroes. This myth is very old: one eighth-century BC bronze situla (container) from Bisenzio seems to show a group of armed men battling a monstrous canine. This scary figure survived in Etruscan culture for 500 years, and its descendant still terrifies us today. Read more | Paint your own pot, like an ancient Etruscan Also at Tarquinia, the late fifth-century BC Tomb of the Blue Demons features terrifying figures with blue skin who are shown wielding snakes. And on a wall in the Tomb of the Infernal Chariot at Sarteano rears a three-headed serpent that will haunt your nightmares. They inspired the Renaissance What’s the connection between the Etruscans and Michelangelo, Raphael and Botticelli? This may appear to be an odd question, given that the more-ancient civilisation had been absorbed into Roman society at least a millennium before those Renaissance greats were in their pomp. But visit the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, and it might not appear quite such a preposterous proposition after all. This chapel is home to one of the great masterpieces of western art: a fresco cycle painted by the Florentine artist Giotto between 1303 and 1305. These frescoes depict scenes from the lives of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. But it is the artist’s portrayal of the Last Judgment – and particularly the horrendous figure of Satan – that features suspicious hints of Etruscan influence. Giotto’s prince of darkness is azure-skinned – the same colour as the eponymous entities in Tarquinia’s Tomb of the Blue Demons, created by Etruscan artists 1,700 years earlier. The infernal figure is also flanked by adders in a pose almost identical to that depicted in the Etruscan tomb. Could Giotto have been aware of his ancient predecessors’ work? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/ALAMY-2C81WHJwebready-eb195c5.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A painting of showing a large blue Satanic figure, surrounded by several naked people in hell" title="Giotto’s Last Judgment fresco in Padua’s 14th-century Scrovegni Chapel, with an azure Satan – perhaps influenced by figures like those in the Etruscan Tomb of the Blue Demons (Image by Alamy)" /> Etruscan art may also have influenced Renaissance culture in less hellish forms. In his Comedy of the Nymphs of Florence, penned c1341–42, the writer Giovanni Boccaccio called his Tuscan arcadia “Etruria”. Meanwhile, the philosopher Leonardo Bruni proudly recounts the Etruscan history of Florence in his History of the Florentine People, begun in 1415. It seems unlikely to be a coincidence that the first reported discovery of Etruscan pottery comes from Bruni’s hometown of Arezzo, describing artefacts found during building work on the city wall and diligently recorded by the monk Ristoro d’Arezzo in 1282. The Renaissance was clearly inspired by medieval Europeans’ engagements with the entire span of classical art. Yet we can speculate with some confidence that the Florentine Renaissance was influenced more specifically by that city’s own Etruscan heritage. They helped kindle our love affair with the ancient Greeks Nothing says ancient Greece quite like the Attic black and red-figure vase. In fact, it’s safe to say that such pieces – decorated with depictions of everything from ancient battles to erotic scenes – have become icons of the Greek world. But why are we talking about them in an article about the Etruscans? The answer is that the vast majority of the complete examples of Attic vases that survive today were excavated from Etruscan tombs in the late 18th and early 19th centuries – in fact, they were known then as ‘Etruscan vases’. Collectors in northern Europe, fresh from their Grand Tour shopping trips, displayed these vessels in dedicated Etruscan rooms. The potter Josiah Wedgwood was so inspired that he named his factory Etruria, and produced a range of pots imitating these ‘Etruscan’ vessels. When art historians finally recognised that the vases were Greek, their Etruscan connection was unceremoniously pushed to one side. But why did the Etruscans so value Greek vases that they chose to be buried with them? This can’t be explained simply by notions of Greek cultural superiority – especially now evidence shows that certain pottery shapes developed in Etruria were later produced in Athens. In fact, we still don’t have a comprehensive explanation for the Etruscans’ Greek addiction. All we can be certain of is that, without Etruscan collectors, thousands of these vessels would have been lost forever, along with their enduring influence on 19th and 20th-century pottery. Lucy Shipley is an archaeologist and researcher. She is the author of The Etruscans: Lost Civilisations (Reaktion, 2017) This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Paint your own pot, like an ancient Etruscan
Silence your inner critic and forget about perfectionism. That's the life lesson we should learn from the Etruscans and their artistic habits, Dr Lucy Shipley tells Dr David Musgrove
There’s a place I used to go to with my children where you could unleash your creative zing by painting a pot. You picked your pot, you painted your pot, and then they fired it for you and you came back and retrieved your handiwork a few days later. I’m no artist, so my pot designs were always distinctly average. But I enjoyed it, and so did my kids, and in that, we were unwittingly drawing on the mindset of the ancient Etruscans. Dr Lucy Shipley is an expert on this overlooked people, and her life lesson that we should draw from them is simple: paint your own pot. The overlooked Etruscans Before we go into that, let’s have a quick recap of who the Etruscans were. They are the people who lived in parts of what is now Italy, particularly in Tuscany and Umbria, in the period before the rise of ancient Rome, in the first millennium BC. They were neighbours and rivals of the Romans and the Greeks. They lived in cities spread across the region, and from their ports they traded widely across the Mediterranean. The Etruscans pop up in ancient sources quite often, but we only ever have accounts of them from an outside perspective, because their own texts do not survive beyond short inscriptions and one religious text. We have to rely on those accounts, along with archaeology, to get to grips with who they were and how they lived. Most of their cities are hard to excavate as they sit under modern settlements, but new excavations are revealing more of their world. Read more | The history of Florence: Italy's Renaissance powerhouse Etruscan tombs also provide a fascinating insight into Etruscan culture, and some feature remarkable wall paintings. These paintings show scenes from everyday life, religion and myth, but also some graphic sexual acts, which has surprised modern eyes (I’ll come back to that). Though Etruria was eventually subsumed into the Roman empire in the fourth and third centuries BC, echoes of their culture persisted. According to Shipley, there is something about the ancient Etruscans that speaks of a people who weren’t afraid to make mistakes, nor who were intimidated by the people around them. They painted their own pots in an inimitable style, and that is something we can draw on today. Painters, potters and perfectionism Aside from the wall paintings, in Etruscan tombs archaeologists have found great quantities of red- and black-figure pottery (when the background is black and the details are left in the colour of the clay). This is the sort of material you’ll be familiar with if you’ve ever looked at ancient Greek vases in a museum. It was originally made in Greece, but inspired Etruscan potters to make their own versions. Some of it was good, but some of it was, well, I’ll leave it to Shipley’s assessment: “They are churning these things out. There is a market for these things, but some of them are terrible. I try not to have value judgments about artefacts, but some of this material looks like somebody has made it with an atrocious red-wine hangover.” There is one particular example that Shipley highlights, of a red-figure vase with a depiction of a hippocamp, or sea beast, which you would have to be very generous to describe as well-executed. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/KC773G-e03f9e9.jpg" width="2850" height="3800" alt="A black terracotta pot with two large handles (one on each side) sits on a white column, against a grey background. On the pot, there is an orange drawing of a dragon" title="It would be hard to describe this sea dragon, painted on a fourth-century BC terracotta drinking cup, as well-executed, suggests Shipley (Image by Alamy)" /> “I love Etruscan archaeology. I’m really passionate about it, but even I am almost laughing at some of this Etruscan red-figure material. Yet it seems they were perfectly happy with it. It’s just that way of being able to express yourself. Do what you’re going to do – you paint that bad dragon. “Sometimes the human forms are a bit blobby. They’re not as neat and precise as the ones that you see imported from Greece, but that’s okay. Someone was very happy with that, and I think that’s a really important lesson. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. But sometimes it’s time to tell your internal critic to shut up and accept that actually what you’ve done is totally fine.” WATCH | Dr Lucy Shipley on letting go of perfectionism View Green Video on the source website Everyone’s an artist That’s a good sentiment, but can we really read that broader sense of a cultural carefree spirit among the Etruscans from some sub-par pottery? According to Shipley, there’s ample evidence of this mindset when you look for it. She recalls an archaeological site that she worked at just outside Siena. “Back when Poggio Civitate was a flourishing Etruscan site, this was home to one of the largest buildings of the ancient world, and it was a craft centre. It burnt down in an accidental fire. You can see that people just literally dropped what they were working on and got out before the flames came. “The result is that you have incredible preservation of the material they were working on. Some of it’s really beautiful, high-quality carving, and terracotta tiles and all sorts of other things. And some of it is really not so much. There’s a whole spectrum of what people were working on, all these different individuals working together in this place. “Everybody’s doing their best and that’s enough. After that fire, they rebuild in an adjacent area. They build this incredible complex, which has terracotta statues on the roof. If you are looking at, say, the Parthenon marbles, you are going to think that these architectural terracottas are a little bit rustic. They’re quite big and chunky and they don’t have that ‘classical refinement’. But they’re so alive and they’re really enchanting – the famous one is a cowboy figure with a huge hat, and he’s seated on a throne on the roof.” Standing out from the crowd Shipley sees similar confidence in Etruscan tomb painting, which some early art historians have described as quite coarse, but which she sees as being alive and full of natural detail. From all this, we can perhaps take the ‘paint your pot’ idea a little further and infer that these people in ancient Etruria were not only content to produce work on their own terms and to their own standards, but also happy to stand out from the crowd, be a little different, and not be worried about unfavourable comparisons with other people, or indeed other cultures. Shipley adds that while Etruscan depictions of Greek myths are often described as being wrong, they’re not – they’re just an Etruscan version and absolutely right to the person telling that story. Read more | Meet the people the ancient Romans and Greeks desperately tried to hide “I'm going to stick my neck out here,” says Shipley, “and this could be my bias because I’m enchanted by the Etruscans, but I think if we look at their actions, we can see that these are confident, capable people who are absolutely viewing themselves as equal with the Greek people that they’re trading with and other trading partners.” So, in Shipley’s assessment, the Etruscans were a people comfortable in their own skins, not overawed by others, and content with creating the things they wanted to create. That sounds like a good place to be – you might express those sorts of characteristics if you were trying to describe a positive, resilient outlook today. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/B21ANR-2f8a341.jpg" width="5291" height="3514" alt="A painted sarcophagus shows a woman dressed in a white gown and headscarf, reclining on her left side, holding something in her hand, while the other hand holds her scarf back from her face" title="A painted terracotta sarcophagus, 150–130 BC, of an Etruscan noblewoman, Seianti Hanunia Tienasa, was found in Poggio Cantarello near Chiusi in Italy (Image by Alamy)" /> There’s one more example that typifies this sentiment. It’s a funeral urn from Chiusi, which you can see in the British Museum today, and it shows the woman whose skeleton is buried in the tomb beneath. “She is represented in a very realistic way. Her face is quite youthful, and they’ve done analysis on her skeleton, so we know she died in her early fifties, but she’s not an idealised form. They’ve done facial reconstruction of her, and it’s recognisably her,” says Shipley. “She’s happy to be depicted in the afterlife as yes, her best self, but as herself. So there’s that idea of being yourself – and unashamedly yourself. And also of not being intimidated by what other people are doing elsewhere and continuing to do the things that have been valuable to your community for a really long time. It’s all wrapped up in that one artefact.” We shouldn’t be rose-tinted about Etruscan society. It wasn’t some utopian land of creative free choice for all its people. As Shipley admits, not everyone would have been able to model this sort of confident, empowered life. “Etruscan society seems to be highly stratified, with people very much divided by access to wealth and luxury goods. While women seem to have had more independence and recognition than in Greece or Rome, this is a long way from being an egalitarian society, and we can’t assume everyone had equality of opportunity or the chance to make their own choices.” But from those who held agency, we can take some life lessons today: “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Enjoy being yourself, painting your own pot in whatever milieu you are doing it and just own it. Be proud of what you can do rather than constantly comparing yourself to somebody else.” Sex, death and the meaning of life I love the fact that Shipley’s interpretation casts us back into the minds of these people so vividly, and I definitely subscribe to the pragmatism over perfectionism approach to life. But what about sex? We can’t leave the Etruscans without seeing if they can help us with our sex lives. Let’s go back to those sexy tomb paintings that I mentioned at the start of this essay, which to modern viewers, can be disarming: “It’s quite shocking to walk into a tomb and see an image of a threesome on the wall. You’re not necessarily expecting that”. What’s going on here? Why were graphic sexual scenes painted on the walls of tombs? It’s been much discussed, but Shipley’s view is that it could be reflecting the generational long-view of the rich and important families that were entombed. Sex leads to children, and thus the continuance of the family line, and the passing down of power and wealth. On that basis, why wouldn’t you want to show your legacy literally being ensured through sexual acts in your place of eternal rest? Read more | Are you healthier than a Roman? These ancient secrets for longevity are still shockingly relevant They’ve been interpreted as great sexual libertines because of these graphic paintings on their tombs and their vases, but that’s not necessarily the case if you follow Shipley’s argument. I don’t think I’m going to convince anyone to start adding pornography to their gravestones now, but I think we can assume that the Etruscans were comfortable with sex and sexuality, and also placed great value on it. We tend to be pretty buttoned-up about talking about sex, and about death, in western culture today, so maybe there’s something else we can draw from them too. To conclude, let’s step back from sex and death, and review Dr Shipley’s wider lessons from the ancient Etruscans: be your authentic self, take risks, don’t be afraid of making mistakes, and don’t let perfectionism stop you from getting things done. As I read them back, I could be chanting the mantra of a modern business, facing up to the hurtling head-rush of the 21st century. Those are the same sentiments that we need today to cope with a world that’s changing before our very eyes. Maybe the people of the Italian peninsula in the first millennium BC felt the same sort of pressures, and maybe we can take a bit of solace and guidance from that. Paint your own pots, people, paint your own pots. This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.
Live locally, live sustainably, live medieval
If you want to live a sustainable life today, you need to think local. For that, you can channel the experience of the Middle Ages, as Dr Ian Mortimer suggests
When I have a spare moment, I dabble in making hazel hurdle fence panels. It’s gloriously therapeutic. You get yourself a fat bundle of six-foot-long straight hazel rods, ram a few of them vertically into the ground at regular intervals and then cajole the rest of your rods through them on the horizontal, weaving them in and out of the uprights. The trick is to bend the rods robustly so that you can feel the fibres creaking and twisting through your palms, but you can’t be so hard on the wood that it cracks and snaps. It’s bad if that happens. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/Hurdles-panels-f647815.jpeg" width="1006" height="774" alt="A fence made of light brown hazel rods, weaved together. In the background, there is a wall covered in ivy and a wooden structure with fairy lights on it" title="“My shabby efforts at making hazel hurdle panels,” explains Dr David Musgrove. “Note the amateur broken ends of the rods.”" /> I am a rank amateur at this, and the results of my labours are woefully rustic, but I like the process of getting there. If you’re doing it properly, you’re supposed to split the hazel rods in half, but I’ve yet to conquer that art. To see it done masterfully, there are loads of informative videos of competent, serious chaps in forests teasing the wood into beautiful hurdle panels. People have been making hazel hurdle panels for millennia. In the Somerset Levels, archaeologists have excavated them in situ where they were laid down in the Neolithic period as trackways to help people get across the boggy ground. They survive, amazingly, because peat grew up over them and protected them. The trickiest bit of making a hazel hurdle is procuring the rods. You have to coppice trees (ie cut them down to the base) in order to encourage the hazel to shoot up in straight stems. If you’re managing a woodland, you would crop the coppiced hazel on a regular rotation every five to seven years. It’s a very sustainable building material because the wood grows back fast and parallel, and we know that in the Middle Ages, they were definitely managing their local woodlands to supply this. The medieval mindset It’s just one of many examples of sustainable living that our medieval forebears were engaged in, according to the historian and author Dr Ian Mortimer. “They managed their resources in a way that they knew they could get continuing crops off – if you pollard or coppice a tree, it’ll grow back stronger. They knew about all that sort of thing.” For Mortimer, there’s a lesson there for us – we should look back to the Middle Ages for inspiration for living sustainably today. Now I know what you’re thinking: those medieval folks weren’t living sustainably because they wanted to, but simply because they had to. Read more | What was life like in a medieval town? A historical A-Z It’s certainly true, according to Mortimer, that life in 11th-century England was precarious for many. He notes there was a regular cycle of famine at the time, so much so that some parents were willing to sell their children into slavery, “because that was a child’s best chance of survival”. There wasn’t much surplus around, and for most people, there wasn’t ready access to markets to transfer the surplus anyway, so most communities were pretty much self-sufficient and heavily dependent on their own productivity and ingenuity. By the time we get to the 13th century, however, things are different. England was much more of a market economy and a lot of goods were moving around. Surpluses could be transferred from places with plentiful supplies to areas in need. The precariousness of a subsistence economy was thus overcome. Nevertheless, communities continued to source most of their food and raw materials from their locality. The less distance it had to travel, the less vulnerable the society. WATCH | Dr Ian Mortimer on the medieval mindset of maximising sustainability View Green Video on the source website “Local production combined with a market economy is a very positive way of maximising sustainability. Whether the Middle Ages had a concept of environmental protection or not, people living then certainly knew how to marshal their local resources and wider networks. And that included working together, collectively and collaboratively.” To avoid the spectre of food shortages, medieval farmers had to manage their risks across the community, share good and bad land equitably among one another, and accept communal rules about what was gathered when, where and by whom. “Look through the manorial customs of medieval manors, and they’ll be saying when the peasants can go take their pigs into the woods to get the beech mast from the ground, and when they’re allowed to pick up the fallen sticks for their firewood, how much timber they're allowed to take for their houses,” observes Mortimer. “When you think about an open field system, which is what we had across most of central England, you can see how they divide all the strips of land into areas where no one’s going to have all their land blighted by a frost pocket because it’s all divided up and scattered, so there’s an average sort of production level across all the fields.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/GettyImages-2181029275-23ca640.jpg" width="4960" height="2923" alt="Two peasants – one dressed in a red top and blue hat, the other in a blue top with red hat – are bent over in the woods, gathering sticks and twigs. In the background, there are fields, thatched cottages and a man riding a white horse" title="Two peasants gather sticks and twigs, turning them into bundles. This traditional wintertime activity is shown here in a Book of Hours c1550 (Image by Getty)" /> Community values What Mortimer is describing there is a way of living communally where resources were shared in a way that was seen as equitable. It had to be managed and rules observed of course, and that’s where the customs of the manor, and the writ of the lord’s local representative, the reeve, came into play. This wasn’t some utopian land of harmony – some people didn’t conform, sometimes there were disputes and disagreements, and sometimes the lords of the manors pressed hard with their demands on the peasants. But there was a strong element of co-operation among these communities to allow for this way of living. Living sustainably was only sustainable if they worked together. People in the Middle Ages would not have understood the concept of sustainable living – to them, it was just living. So you might take the view that this interpretation is simply historians today mirroring 21st-century concerns and projecting them onto the past. Of course, that’s true to an extent – history is always a reflection of the present. However, academics have been writing about this aspect of medieval life for quite a while. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/GettyImages-1156947533-1ba6999.jpg" width="5414" height="4372" alt="A shepherd dressed in light brown and red stands by his flock of sheep. He stands on a yellow path, next to a cream building. In the background, there are more buildings, lots of green trees and a big blue building" title="A shepherd leading his flock, as depicted in a 15th-century miniature. There was a strong ethos of cooperation between medieval peasants (Image by Getty)" /> There is an interesting paper written back in 1990 by Jules Pretty, who is now emeritus professor of environment and society at the University of Essex, and a noted voice in sustainable living. His paper, published in the Agricultural History Review, and called “Sustainable Agriculture in the Middle Ages: The English Manor”, makes the argument that the medieval peasantry valued highly the goals of stability, sustainability and equitability. Like Mortimer, Pretty stresses the importance of neighbourly cooperation: “Villagers traded ale, cereals, hay, livestock and wood, and hired out livestock, ploughs, harrows and carts. Secondly, they provided support and mutual help for each other, particularly through crop and plough-team sharing arrangements. Peasants lent grain, livestock, tools and household utensils to needy neighbours, though these arrangements were more common between small and middle landowners. Thirdly, communal decisions were taken against individuals who had attempted to over-consume or underinvest in the communal resources – in particular those who had encroached onto the common wastes, had over-used the commons, over-gleaned the fields, or had neglected their obligations to maintain roads, ditches, hedges and gate.” Read more | 5 things you (probably) didn't know about... late medieval England Waste not, want not Of course, they were also very mindful of not wasting what they did produce. All parts of the animals they kept were eaten, and they consumed the old animals rather than the young so that they could be sure of getting all the resources (milk, wool, that sort of thing) from them in life. They made sure that they returned what they could to the land they worked as well. The use of animal, and human, excrement for manure was a major concern. And when it came to building materials, they were very happy to reuse stone and timbers from old structures wherever they could – you only have to look at the Roman bricks in the great Norman tower of St Albans Cathedral to see that. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/dreamstimel218021476-2c7d446.jpg" width="2736" height="1826" alt="A photograph of St Albans Cathedral. To the left, a tree partially obscures the building. To the right, a large building with many arched windows and a large tower." title="The Norman tower of St Albans Cathedral includes reused Roman bricks, just one example of a sustainable building practice in the Middle Ages (Image by Dreamstime)" /> In his forthcoming book, Mortimer’s A-Z of English History (Old Street, publication scheduled for 21 October 2025), Mortimer succinctly explains this, and he’s let me quote a few paragraphs here: “Today, few of us keep vats of urine stored around the house. But up until the 19th century it is collected and put to use in fulling wool and scouring cloth, as well as being employed in various dyeing processes. It is in demand because it’s a natural and cheap source of ammonia, which is an alkali. People also use spots of it when removing stains from clothing. It becomes more efficacious when it is old, so people really do store vats of it for long periods of time. Thus, when you imagine the smells in an ordinary medieval home, along with the smoke and the traces of rotting offal in the rushes, add the smell of stale piss. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/07/GettyImages-56258750-f833761.jpg" width="4018" height="4915" alt="A document showing drawings of 12 bottles of urine. The top 5 are filled with urine from red to green colour, the second row of four have orange and yellow, and the last row of three contain very dark red to black urine" title="A series of flagons containing urine, which, until the 19th century, used to be stored by people at home for various tasks (Image by Getty)" /> “The point here is not to laugh at how gross life was in the past. It is rather that people in the pre-industrial age look at things that we think of as undesirable in different ways. In the 1960s the sociologist Mary Douglas famously observed that there is objectively no such thing as ‘dirt’ but rather what we call ‘dirt’ is simply ‘matter out of place’. A good example is manure: in the garden, it is definitely in the right place; in the middle of your living room carpet, it is dirt. This is why medieval people keep hold of things that neither you nor I would want lingering around the house. In a world created by God, everything has its ‘right place’. “Usefulness is the key. Or sustainability, as we might call it today. Medieval people keep old ashes from the hearth to make potash, which is used for scouring pots and pans with handfuls of straw. They also use potash for making lye (in which you wash your hair, even though it is strongly alkaline). It is also a key ingredient of liquid soap (in which you clean your clothes). Likewise, medieval people will eat all manner of offal that we would throw away. Apples are kept carefully for a full year; if they turn rotten, they are pressed to make cider. Nothing is wasted. Bones are boiled for their marrow. Fat is stored in dripping pans. Skins from all sorts of animals, including goats, dogs and cats, are made into gloves. Fallen boughs and sticks are put aside for firewood. The heat that remains in an oven after the bread has been baked is used to make small cakes. ‘Waste not, want not’ is the motto by which everyone lives unless they are rich enough to be a ‘waster’, and even the wasters let their castoffs and rubbish be used by other people. Almost nothing is thrown away except broken pottery and the cloth used to wipe your ‘nether end’.” The three Rs In our interview, I didn’t chat to Mortimer about the repair culture in the Middle Ages very much, but we did run a fascinating interview on the HistoryExtra podcast a little while ago with the German medievalist Professor Annette Kehnel, author of The Green Ages: Medieval Innovations in Sustainability. Kehnel explained how the repair business was a thriving one in European medieval cities, with people making their livelihoods by repairing clothes, shoes and household goods. You can listen to that here. So, if you think of the three Rs of sustainability – reduce, reuse, recycle – the people of the Middle Ages were absolutely living the second and third values in that list, but not so much the first. Reducing consumption wasn’t really in the gift of most people, with the limited resources available to them, though Mortimer does note that the strictures of the church in terms of not eating meat does play into that: “ You could take the view that the restriction on eating meat across Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays in the Catholic church was not just a spiritual thing, but also about eking out protein because you don’t need to eat meat every single day. Eating fish as opposed to meat then naturally balances things out.” Read more | Why there’s no such thing as a typical medieval peasant To conclude then, Mortimer’s message, drawing on his knowledge of the Middle Ages, is that, if we want to live sustainably today, “Necessities all need to be local and all need to be transported within the locality, in a way that’s reliable and energy-efficient and low cost.” There are problems with that. It’s much more difficult to buy locally if you happen to live in a modern conurbation, and as is regularly reported, it’s often much more expensive to buy locally produced foods than it is to get imported products in a supermarket. But there are urban co-operative movements springing up across the UK that are trying to address those problems. It’s been argued, and counter-argued, that the decline of neighbourliness occurred in the post-medieval period as the ethical code of the old village community unwound in the face of more individualistic behaviour in the 16th and 17th centuries. That debate has been going on among social historians of early modern England for decades, and it carries on still. I’m not going to get into that here, but perhaps the message is that locality, community and sustainability fit together. That certainly was the case in the Middle Ages, and maybe that’s something we should think about today. If we want to live sustainably, we need to think about how we live as local communities and cooperate harmoniously. This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.