Gaius Octavius was eighteen years old when Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC, and nobody thought he mattered. He was Caesar’s great-nephew, slight and sickly, without military reputation or political standing. He had one asset: Caesar’s will named him adopted son and primary heir. He used that asset with a patience and calculation that none of his older, more experienced rivals understood until it was too late.

The name by which history knows him — Augustus, the revered one — was a title conferred by the Senate in 27 BC, seventeen years after Caesar’s death and four years after he had defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra at the Battle of Actium, eliminating the last serious rival to his control of the Roman world. Between the teenager nobody feared and the man the Senate was now calling Augustus lay fourteen years of civil war, shifting alliances, calculated betrayals, and the systematic elimination of everyone who stood between Octavian and sole power. He was very good at it.

Ben-Hur won eleven Academy Awards in 1959, a record it shared with Titanic and The Lord of the Return of the King for decades, and it is the film against which all subsequent Roman epics have been measured — usually unfavorably. William Wyler’s production was the most expensive film ever made at the time of its release, employed tens of thousands of extras, built the largest film set in history for the chariot race sequence, and ran for three hours and thirty-two minutes. It was also, by the standards of its genre, serious in ways that the epics of the preceding decade were not.

The Byzantine Empire called itself Rome. Its citizens called themselves Romans. Its emperor held the title that Augustus had held. Its laws were Roman laws. Its language of government was Latin until the seventh century, when Greek — which had always been the spoken language of the eastern provinces — became official. The entity that modern historians call Byzantium would not have recognized the name: it was Byzantium only in retrospect, named by scholars for the ancient Greek city on whose site Constantine had built his new capital. To everyone who lived in it, from Constantine’s founding of Constantinople in 330 AD to the Ottoman conquest in 1453, it was simply Rome. That it had relocated, that the western half had collapsed, that Germanic kings sat in Ravenna and eventually in the city of Rome itself — none of this changed the self-conception of an empire that understood itself as continuous with Augustus.

Caesarea Maritima was built by Herod the Great on a site with no natural harbor, no fresh water source, and no existing urban infrastructure, over a period of approximately twelve years ending around 10 BC, and it became the capital of the Roman province of Judaea and one of the most important cities on the eastern Mediterranean coast. The feat of urban creation involved harbor engineering that modern marine archaeologists have called the most ambitious building project in the ancient world: an artificial harbor of roughly 100,000 square meters created by sinking enormous concrete blocks into water sixty meters deep, using hydraulic concrete — the pozzolanic technology that gave Roman harbor structures their extraordinary durability — in its most ambitious application anywhere in the empire. The harbor blocks, two thousand years later, still lie beneath the Mediterranean, structurally recognizable and studied by diving archaeologists who find in them evidence of Roman engineering at its most technically extraordinary.

On August 2, 216 BC, on a flat plain near the Aufidus River in southern Italy, the Carthaginian general Hannibal Barca destroyed a Roman army of approximately 86,000 men in a single afternoon. Somewhere between 47,000 and 70,000 Romans died — the numbers vary by ancient source but the scale is not in dispute. It was the bloodiest day in Roman history, possibly the bloodiest single day of battle in the ancient world, and it accomplished nothing. Rome did not fall. It did not negotiate. It raised more legions and kept fighting.

Carthage must be destroyed. The phrase — Carthago delenda est — was reportedly repeated by Cato the Elder at the end of every Senate speech he gave, regardless of the speech’s actual subject, in the years before the Third Punic War. It is probably apocryphal, or at least exaggerated, but it captures something true about the Roman relationship with Carthage: a fear and hostility so intense that it could only be resolved by elimination, and a political culture prepared to act on that resolution against a city that had been, by the 140s BC, effectively defanged by the terms of its previous defeat.

On Christmas Day, 800 AD, Pope Leo III placed a crown on the head of the Frankish king Charles in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome and the assembled congregation acclaimed him Emperor of the Romans. Whether Charlemagne was surprised by this — his biographer Einhard claims he said he would not have entered the church had he known what was to happen — is debated; the staging suggests coordination, and Charlemagne was not a man who was often genuinely surprised by political events. What is not debated is what the coronation meant: four centuries after the conventional date of Rome’s fall, the most powerful ruler in western Europe was being crowned not as King of the Franks or King of the Germans but as Emperor of the Romans, in Rome, at the greatest shrine of Roman Christianity, by the successor of St. Peter. Rome had not died. It had changed form.

Marcus Tullius Cicero was the greatest orator Rome produced, possibly the greatest the ancient world produced, and he was killed for it. His head and his right hand — the hand that had written the Philippics, the series of speeches attacking Mark Antony — were displayed on the Rostra in the Roman Forum by Antony’s orders in 43 BC. Antony’s wife Fulvia reportedly pushed hairpins through the tongue that had destroyed so many reputations with such elegance. The story may be exaggerated. The impulse it describes was not.

Nearly a thousand letters written by Cicero survive, along with approximately ninety letters addressed to him from other correspondents. They span the period from 68 BC to his death in 43 BC and constitute the most intimate documentary record of any figure from the ancient world. They were not written for publication. They were written to friends, family members, political allies, and enemies, in the urgency of specific moments, and they reveal a man whose public persona — the great orator, the defender of the Republic, the statesman who executed the Catilinarians — was inhabited by someone considerably more anxious, vain, inconsistent, and human than the published speeches would suggest.

The 1963 Cleopatra directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz — or rather, directed by Rouben Mamoulian and then by Mankiewicz after Mamoulian was fired, with extensive interference from the studio and the cast throughout — cost approximately forty-four million dollars, which was enough to nearly bankrupt Twentieth Century Fox, take four years to complete, survive the death of one director, the illness and near-death of its star, and the most extensively documented off-set romance in Hollywood history. The resulting film runs for four hours and seventeen minutes in its complete version. It is simultaneously one of the most expensive disasters in studio history and a more interesting film than its reputation suggests.