The tradition of serious English historical fiction about Rome begins, in its modern form, with Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii in 1834 — a novel that invented the sub-genre of Roman disaster narrative, established the template of the virtuous Christian and the corrupt pagan Roman, and sold in numbers that established ancient Rome as a commercially viable fictional setting for the Victorian reading public. The novel is not much read today and deserves to be read less. Its historical importance is entirely distinct from its literary quality.

On August 24, 410 AD, the Visigoths under Alaric entered Rome through the Salarian Gate and spent three days sacking the city. It was the first time a foreign enemy had taken Rome in eight hundred years — since the Gauls in 390 BC — and the psychological shock of the event reverberated across the Mediterranean world in ways that exceeded its military or economic significance. Jerome, writing from Bethlehem, described the impact in terms usually reserved for cosmic events. Augustine, prompted by pagan Romans who blamed Christianity for the calamity, spent the next thirteen years writing the City of God in partial response to the question of what the sack meant. What it meant, in fact, was both more and less than the commentary of the time suggested.

The Saturnalia began on December 17 and lasted, in its imperial development, for seven days. It was the most popular festival in the Roman calendar, the one that Roman writers mention most frequently as a cherished institution, and the one whose customs have attracted the most scholarly attention for their relationship to the Christmas traditions that eventually overlapped with and largely replaced them. For the duration of the Saturnalia, Roman social life was deliberately inverted: slaves were served dinner by their masters, social distinctions were relaxed, gambling was legally permitted, gift-giving was universal, and the general atmosphere of licensed excess provided a temporary release from the hierarchical rigidity that organized Roman life during the other fifty weeks of the year.

The Roman Empire never solved its succession problem. This was not an oversight or a failure of political imagination — it was a structural consequence of the way the principate was constructed. Augustus had built a system that was functionally monarchical but constitutionally republican, which meant it could not have formal hereditary succession without admitting it was a monarchy. The result was a fiction maintained for centuries: that each emperor received his powers from the Senate and people of Rome, and that the previous emperor’s designation of a successor was a recommendation rather than a binding determination. Everyone knew this was a fiction. The fiction was maintained because the alternative — acknowledging that Rome was a hereditary monarchy — was politically untenable for an aristocratic culture that had executed men for aspiring to kingship.

The tribunate of the plebs was constitutionally the strangest office Rome created: a position with enormous negative power and almost no positive authority, held by men who were personally inviolable and therefore theoretically untouchable, which the Senate solved, when necessary, by murdering them. The office existed because the plebeian class had successfully used the threat of mass withdrawal from Roman civic life to extract political concessions from the patrician establishment. It functioned for centuries as a genuine check on senatorial power. It became, in the hands of the Gracchi, the mechanism by which the Roman Republic began to destroy itself.

The Roman triumph — the procession through the city in which a victorious general displayed his captives and the spoils of conquest before depositing the latter in the treasury and offering thanks at the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus — was the most spectacular public ritual of the Roman world, and its visual representation has served as propaganda for European rulers from the Renaissance through the nineteenth century. The triumph’s logic — the hero returns, the enemy is displayed, the city is made to feel the extent of its power — was available for appropriation by any ruler who needed to communicate the same things, and the painters who rendered ancient triumphs for modern patrons understood they were serving both historical documentation and political argument simultaneously.

Roman law did not begin with the Twelve Tables. There was law before them — customary, oral, held in the memory of the patrician families who administered it and interpreted it as they saw fit. That was precisely the problem. In 450 BC, a commission of ten men — the decemviri — was appointed to write the law down. The resulting text, inscribed on twelve bronze tablets and displayed in the Roman Forum, was the founding document of the Western legal tradition. The tablets themselves are lost. Their importance is not.

The Vestal Virgins were the most socially privileged women in Rome and, simultaneously, subject to a punishment for a specific transgression — unchastity — that no other Roman citizen faced: burial alive. The combination of exceptional status and exceptional vulnerability was not a paradox in the Roman religious framework but a logical consequence of what the Vestals were understood to represent. Their virginity was not a personal moral choice; it was a civic necessity. The sacred fire they tended in the Temple of Vesta was, in Roman religious understanding, the eternal flame of Rome itself, and its maintenance by women who were themselves unbreached vessels was what kept Rome’s divine favor intact. When a Vestal was unchaste, it was not a private transgression but a public catastrophe that had to be addressed with proportionate ritual severity.

Popular history is a machine for producing confident errors, and Rome is one of its most productive subjects. The combination of genuine drama, distant evidence, and centuries of embellishment has generated a set of myths about Rome that persist through repetition long after the historical record has corrected them. Some are harmless. Some distort the actual history in ways that matter.

The vomitorium was not a room for vomiting. It was a technical term for the exit passages of an amphitheater or theater — the tunnels through which large crowds could rapidly exit a stadium after an event. The word derives from the Latin vomere, meaning to spew out, which is an entirely accurate description of crowds disgorging from a building. The association with Roman dining excess came later and has no serious ancient support. Romans did occasionally induce vomiting for medical or digestive reasons, but the image of systematic purging between banquet courses is a fantasy.

The Senate’s formula for praising good emperors — felicior Augusto, melior Traiano, may you be luckier than Augustus and better than Trajan — established Trajan as the standard of imperial virtue against which all subsequent emperors were measured. He was the first provincial emperor, born in Spain to a Roman family that had settled there generations earlier, and his elevation by Nerva in 97 AD represented the completion of the process by which the Roman Empire’s leadership became genuinely imperial rather than Italian. He was admired by his contemporaries, praised by the senatorial tradition that wrote most of the surviving ancient history, and still regarded by most historians as among the most capable emperors who ever held the position. His reign was also the high-water mark of Roman territorial expansion, after which the empire never grew larger and began, slowly and then rapidly, to contract.