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.

Ancient Rome has not left contemporary art alone, and contemporary art has not left ancient Rome alone. The relationship between them is different from the academic tradition’s engagement — less archaeologically earnest, more ironic, more interested in the tension between the ruin and its meanings than in the reconstruction of what the ruin was before it ruined. Contemporary artists approaching Rome approach a subject already saturated with prior appropriations: the neoclassical, the Victorian, the fascist, the cinematic. To paint or photograph or install Rome now is to navigate a layered history of representations that is itself part of the subject.

Latin is not a dead language. The claim that it died with Rome is one of the more misleading things said about either Latin or Rome, and correcting it requires understanding what actually happened to the language after the Western Empire’s political structures dissolved in the fifth century. Latin did not die. It evolved, as all living languages do, into forms that its classical speakers would have had difficulty understanding. The languages that evolved from it — Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Catalan, Galician, Occitan, and several others — are Latin, in the same sense that modern English is Old English: substantially transformed, but continuous. They did not replace Latin; they are Latin, moving through time.

Giovanni Battista Piranesi arrived in Rome in 1740 at the age of twenty and spent the rest of his life there, producing approximately one thousand etchings of the ancient and modern city that changed how Europeans understood ruins and, through ruins, understood time. His Vedute di Roma — the Views of Rome — documented the ancient monuments with a precision that made them available to architects, scholars, and artists across Europe who could not travel to see the originals. His Carceri d’Invenzione — the Imaginary Prisons — invented spaces of impossible scale and mechanical complexity that influenced the visual imagination of the Gothic tradition, science fiction, and everything in between. His archaeological publications — the Antichità Romane — were serious scholarly contributions to the understanding of Roman building techniques. He was simultaneously a documentarian, a fantasist, and a polemicist, and the three modes were not always separable.

More than half the world’s population lives under legal systems derived substantially from Roman law. This is not a figure of speech or a vague cultural influence — it is a specific claim about the transmission of particular legal concepts, doctrines, and analytical frameworks from the Roman jurists of the classical period through Justinian’s sixth-century compilation, through the medieval universities where that compilation was taught, and through the national codifications of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that carry Roman legal doctrine in modified form to the present day. The French Civil Code of 1804, the German Civil Code of 1900, the Italian Civil Code of 1942, the Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, Belgian, Swiss, Japanese, Korean, Brazilian, and hundreds of other civil law codes: all of these are Roman law filtered through historical transmission and adapted to modern conditions.

The arch is not a Roman invention. The Babylonians built arches. The Egyptians built arches. The Etruscans used the arch centuries before Rome became a significant power. What Rome did with the arch was different in kind from what any previous civilization had achieved: it deployed the arch at a scale and consistency that transformed the built environment of three continents, in forms — the vault, the barrel vault, the groin vault, the dome — that enabled the massive public spaces that define Roman architecture, and it left behind enough surviving examples that the arch became synonymous with Rome in the European architectural imagination.

The kingdoms that replaced Roman administration in the western provinces were not anti-Roman. This is the most important correction to the standard narrative of Rome’s fall, and it matters because the standard narrative — civilized Rome overwhelmed by barbarous outsiders — is both factually wrong and interpretively misleading. The Visigothic kingdom in Spain, the Ostrogothic kingdom in Italy, the Burgundian kingdom in the Rhône valley, the Frankish kingdom in Gaul — these were not negations of Rome. They were, in varying degrees, continuations of Rome under different management, sustained by Roman administrative forms, legitimated by Roman imperial titles, and often governed by rulers who had spent significant portions of their careers in Roman service and who regarded Roman civilization as the culture they had inherited rather than the culture they had defeated.

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.