It hangs from a chain in a museum case in Hannover, small and bronze and entirely matter-of-fact about what it is. A winged phallus with bird legs, the feet fitted with tiny rings that once held bells. The wings spread to either side. The whole object was designed to move — to hang in a doorway or above a cradle, to swing in a draft, to catch the light and ring softly when the air shifted. This is a fascinum, the primary Roman protective object against the evil eye, and it was as ordinary a household item in imperial Rome as a smoke detector is today: unremarkable in its presence, urgently necessary in its function, noticed only when it was absent.

René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo began publishing Asterix in the French magazine Pilote in 1959, and the series has been introducing children to Roman geography, imperial bureaucracy, and the gap between official rhetoric and actual practice ever since. Over thirty-nine albums, several animated films, and four live-action feature films, Asterix has reached an audience that no academic history of Rome has approached, and it has done so by taking the Roman Empire seriously enough to understand what is actually funny about it.

Roman naming conventions are among the more counterintuitive aspects of the culture for modern readers, and the confusion they generate is not merely academic. Understanding Roman names is understanding something important about Roman identity, social structure, and the relationship between the individual and the family — a relationship that was organized very differently from the modern Western model.

The classical Roman name for a male citizen of the Republic consisted of three parts: the praenomen, the nomen, and the cognomen. The praenomen was the personal name — the equivalent of a first name — but it was used almost exclusively within the family. Romans did not address each other by praenomen in public contexts. There were very few praenomina in use — approximately eighteen were common, and many families used only two or three across generations — which meant that they were not functionally distinctive at any scale beyond the household. The praenomen was abbreviated in writing: Gaius became C., Marcus became M., Lucius became L. (confusingly, since Gaius was abbreviated C rather than G, a legacy of archaic Latin spelling).

Romans played games everywhere. Game boards scratched into the steps of the Colosseum, carved into the pavements of the Roman Forum, incised into the floors of military barracks from Hadrian’s Wall to the Syrian desert — the physical evidence for Roman gaming culture is distributed across every context where Romans spent time waiting, resting, or socializing. The games themselves ranged from dice games requiring no equipment beyond three cubes of bone or ivory to board games of genuine strategic complexity, and they were played by everyone: soldiers, merchants, slaves, emperors. Claudius was reportedly so devoted to dice games that he designed a special board for playing in his carriage. Augustus played board games regularly. The imperial dignity was not considered incompatible with sitting across a game board from someone.

Rome has been a film subject since the beginning of cinema, and the relationship between Hollywood’s Rome and the historical record is complicated in ways that go beyond simple error-counting. Some of what cinema gets wrong is deliberate simplification for narrative clarity. Some is period convention — the sandal epics of the 1950s reflected Cold War anxieties as much as ancient history. Some is genuine incomprehension of a world sufficiently distant that even educated filmmakers cannot feel its difference. And occasionally, something unexpected gets it exactly right in ways that the filmmakers may not have consciously intended.

The Circus Maximus was the largest sports venue the ancient world ever built, capable of holding somewhere between 150,000 and 250,000 spectators — the ancient sources give figures that seem implausibly large but are not entirely implausible given the site’s archaeology. For comparison, the Colosseum held perhaps 50,000 to 80,000. The Circus was Rome’s dominant entertainment venue, chariot racing was Rome’s dominant spectator sport, and the passion Romans invested in the circus factions — the Blues, Greens, Reds, and Whites — was of an intensity that modern sports tribalism only partially approximates. In Constantinople, a dispute between circus factions contributed to a riot that killed tens of thousands of people and nearly ended Justinian’s reign. This is the world that chariot racing inhabited.

The calendar you use today is a Roman calendar. The twelve months, the seven-day week borrowed from Near Eastern sources and transmitted through Rome, the numbering of the years from a fixed point that eventually became the Christian era — all of these are features of the system that Julius Caesar reformed in 46 BC and that the Catholic Church adjusted in 1582 with modifications so minor that most countries now use what is, in its essentials, the calendar Caesar commissioned. You wake up on a Tuesday in October because a Roman dictator in the first century BC decided to align the civil year with the solar year, and his solution was good enough to last two thousand years.

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.