The evening hours of a very warm, yet very exciting day are unfolding before us like a fresh canvas waiting for its first, gentle brushstroke.
The sun, having almost fully surrendered her glaring reign to the inevitable rise of the night, watches carefully over the dwellers of Florence.
We spent our day exploring the fascinating history of Tuscany’s capital city, gazing mesmerized at captivating art from centuries past, and shielding ourselves from the blazing beams radiating from the golden orb sitting high up in the sky.
The vicoli are still crowded with overheated, sweating tourists and citizens, enjoying a few moments of well deserved peace after yet another day of work - both passing their time at a nearby bar or a restaurant.
As we enter the bustling Piazza della Signoria, our gaze is almost immediately drawn to the stunning monument that is the Loggia dei Lanzi, sitting directly behind the Galeria degli Uffizi. Three majestic arches made from sandstone rise wide and high into the air, while four trefoils representing the four cardinal virtues - fortitude, temperance, justice and prudence - embellish its facade, effortlessly attracting the attention of everyone entering the piazza.
Their blue enamelled background was the work of a monk named Leonardo, but the golden stars that shine so delicately in the background were added by Lorenzo di Bicci, an Italien painter of the Florentine School and a man considered to be one of the most significant artists during the second half of the 14th century.

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For some, exhausted from the heat of the day, the benches that have been placed in front of the building serve as a mere resting place, while the historical weight the monument carries does not seem to reach them. Others hurry past without ever sparing it a moment of attention. And then, there is us - the ones entirely captivated by its striking beauty. The ones spellbound by art, culture and history, unwilling to fully surrender ourselves to the world of modernity and technology.
As we step closer, our focus belongs entirely to the monument. The surrounding voices fade into the background until they are a mere soft hum - almost like the low cello notes of a bumblebee in a nearby flowery field.
A tourist close by had dropped a fork, and in his effort to pick it up from the ground almost spilled his drink. Cursing beneath his breath, he looked around, noticably uncomfortable from the attention he had drawn to himself - but the moment entirely escapes us. Our senses are already elsewhere, as we admire the statues that so beautifully decorate the inside of the building.
Here, history seems to welcome us with open arms, readily prepared to speak of its tales to everyone who is willing to pause, and listen carefully. The curious. The ones thirsting for knowledge. The ones mesmerized by the threads of time.
The works of Cellini, Fedi and Vacca seem to follow us with their gaze, but on this very evening, another piece seems to command every ounce of our awareness.

The waning sunlight paints “The Abduction of a Sabine Woman” in a honeyed hue, almost softening the meaning hiding behind its ambered mask. But we have heard the tale, and we know enough about the myth that its inviting glow cannot erase the cruelty that lies beneath. It is the work of the Flemish sculptor Giambologna.
As the heat from the sun-baked ground slowly creeps through the soles of our sandals, we treat closer to admire the carefully engraved details carved from a single block of Italian Carrara marble. A chill gradually crawls up inside of us, making itself at home in our heavy chests, while our hearts sink just a little deeper.
Three large, intertwined figures rise before us in a dramatic serpentine spiral, all connected with one another, and yet each of them is telling a different story from the same moment in time.
Our focus falls upon the muscular figure in the centre, depicting a Roman soldier seizing a young woman of the Sabine, clutching her close in a tight grip.
Determination can be found in his eyes. He was given his orders by his King, he had chosen his prey and succeeded in taking what he understood to be his now.
But his face, does it not speak of something else as well? His wide eyes and his gaping mouth, could it not be the expression of someone who’s conscious had finally fought through his desires? Is he aware that, in stealing this young and innocent woman across the threshold of his home, he carries away not a prize, but a soul that was never his to claim?

Our eyes wander to the maiden herself. Her rigid, twisted body and her terrified expression speak an entirely different language. Her peaceful world was violently disrupted by this sudden attack led by the King of the Romans, and it left the tribes, lured to Rome under false and cunning pretenses, entirely unprepared.
From one harmless moment to another, the excitement of the day turned into something far more sinister, when she - seized by a strong and unshakeable predator - found herself in the unfortunate position of prey, unable to fight him off. The helpnessness and terror depicted in her marble eyes is almost heartbreakingly tangible to us as we stand before her.

The figure kneeling on the bottom of the statue is now almost entirely veiled into the shadows of the descending sun.
His eyes a canvas of terror and fear, as the soldier - much younger and stronger than himself - had cunningly seized his daughter. Was it not his decision to take his entire family to the festival in honour of Neptune Equester, to watch the chariot games and the horse races, and to quench his thirsting curiosity to finally see the newly found city with his own eyes? Kneeling on the ground, the enemy between him and his own flesh and blood, he seemed to realize that he was on the losing side of the battle, and that there was nothing he could do but watch his own daughter being carried off.

It took Giambologna almost four years to complete the statue, which is so often considered his true masterpiece. It was created for the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Francesco I de’ Medici, because - driven by ambition - the Flemish sculptor had made it his goal to impress the powerful and influential Medici.
Despite its undeniable beauty, however, historical records note that this specific colossal block of marble, which should become the largest block of marble ever transported to Florence, was still imperfect. The artist had to masterfully execute his fluid, gravity-defying composition around the natural constraints and flaws inside the block.
And Giambologna succeeded. “The Abduction of a Sabine Woman” creates an incredible visual illusion of weightlessness, despite the fact that it was carved from one immensely heavy, large marbled block.
At last, our eyes fall upon the tablet, engraved in Latin:

“OPVS
IOANNIS
BOLONII FLANDRI
MDLXXXII”

It is Giambologna’s signature, which translates into “The work of Johannes of Boulogne, the Fleming, 1582”.

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Many minutes have passed by since we entered the Piazza della Signoria, and we first laid eyes on this astonishing masterpiece.
For a few moments in time, we lost ourselves in both its beauty and its cruelty, reliving the tale of the abducted Sabine women once more, still entirely touched by it.
The piazza has grown darker now, and the sounds that have been mere background hum return to us in sharp contrast. The candles lit by the surrounding restaurants begin to flicker as a mild breeze cuts through the warm evening air, accompanied by a moment of relief.
One last time our eyes wander over the statue, and as we admire its beauty, we say our goodbyes in search of a quiet, unoccupied spot among the tourists and the locals.

Remus was dead.
His blood was spilled, his life had been taken, and nothing could undo what Romulus had done. Remorse may have spread through him after the brutal murder of his beloved twin-brother by his own hand, but neither did this impulsive act stop Romulus, nor did it slow him down in what should become his greatest achievement - the Roman Empire.
Foundations were laid, fortifications raised, huts were built and order was established.
The ruler of Rome wasted no time. He appointed founding men and established the Roman Senate as his advisory council.
However, after his brothers’ death only a mere handful of Romulus’ companions remained in the newly found city upon the Palatine Hill, and soon he came to realize that the need for more citizens was both real and pressing.
In a bold gamble, Romulus made the decision to prioritize quantity over quality, declaring Rome an asylum and inviting the forgotten and forsaken of Italy to gather within the protection of its walls. Crowds of runaway slaves, criminals, exiles and refugees flocked into the city, and while this increased the population tremendously, it did not solve the problem at hand: long-term survival.
Romulus’ declaration drew mostly men to the grounds of Rome, but very few women were attracted by this offer. Yet women were essential. They were needed. Without them, there would be no future generations to inhabit the city, its unsteady infrastructure would fall apart entirely, and Rome would die as quickly as it was established.

As ruler of Rome, Romulus intended to set an example of leadership and first tried his hand in diplomacy. Hopeful, he sent out messengers to the tribes living nearby, including the Sabines, Latins and the Etruscans, to propose intermarriage and future alliances to their kings.
And yet, he still failed in his mission. As a direct result of Rome’s poor reputation of being a disgraceful haven for bandits and outcasts, his proposals were rejected or left unanswered.
Having been dismissed by his neighbours, Romulus found himself in a trying position. The city he had founded with his own hands and stained with the blood of his own brother, was bound to fade out of existence, and he would fade along with it. Rather than being remembered as the great king of Rome, he would vanish from memory altogether, until even his name would be diminished by time.
Overcome by fear and feelings of resentment for the other tribes, he desperately needed to find a solution to the predicament he found himself in.
He had to devise a plan.

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Shortly after, the city of Rome organized a grand festival in honour of Neptune Equester, the God of Horsemanship, which was to take place in the grassy valley between the Palatine and the Aventine Hills.
Wooden spectator stands and viewing platforms were erected especially for the chariot games and horse races that were to be held on that very day. The nearby tribes had been invited to attend the festival, and this time they gratefully accepted.
People, driven by a deep curiosity to see the newly built city with their own eyes, flooded into Rome. Many men were accompanied by their families - wives, sons, and unmarried daughters.
Before the games officially began, the visitors were taken around the city walls to build a false sense of security - they were shown into the houses, guided through the fortifications, and introduced to the functions of the senate.
The atmosphere vibrated with a festive energy - bright, loud and highly distracting - while their guests surrendered themselves to the novelty of their surroundings and the excitement of the games.
It was then that Romulus gave his prearranged signal to his men, as he rose from his seat, folded his cloak, and threw it around himself again in one swift movement.
From one moment to another, the carefree air that held the thrill of the day turned into something far more severe - it turned into chaos, danger and a tension almost palpable.
During the games, while the eyes of the spectators were fixed upon the fascinating races, the Romans chose their prey, and once their king gave his signal, they attacked and seized the young women of the Sabine tribe, carrying them off into their homes.
The remaining Sabines fought back. Desperately, they tried to rescue their women and save them from the Roman’s determined grasp, but the attack came too sudden and unexpected, and they were driven out of the city.
The young women, vulnerable and frightened, were now all on their own with their abductors.

Romulus blamed their parents’ arrogant rejection of his original proposal for the extreme measures he was then forced to take, but assured the terrified women that they were to be legally wedded wives, promising them full civic rights and property shares, and the honourable status as mothers of free Romans.
Over time, the men were able to persuade their now wives with kindness and gifts, and as the first children were born, the women were now entirely tied to their new lives.
But the abduction provoked retaliation, and Romulus knew that a confrontation was inevitable.

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Successfully, he and his men repelled attacks led by the Caeninenses, the Crustuminii and the Antemnates, who sought revenge for the Sabines as much as for the misleading invitation.
At last, the Sabines themselves declared war on Rome, and as they advanced to the gates of the city, the betrayal of one Roman woman would come to aid them in their need for justice: it was Tarpeia, the daughter of a Roman commander, having been bribed with gold, jewels and even the promise of marriage, who opened the doors to the enemy.
But fate would turn against her, and the disloyalty she had shown her own people was rewarded with neither wealth nor love: as she opened the gates to the Sabines, the warriors swarmed inside, crushing her to death with their shields.
The Sabines covered ground and bravely pressed on into the heart of the city, but were met with the fierce resistance of the Romans. A battle that pushed both sides to their absolute limits had begun. In the mid-8th century BC, the battlefield was not a flat and safe ground to stand upon, but a treacherous basin filled with deep mud and standing water, causing men and horses to slip and sink into the mire. When the Sabines advanced further, the Romans began to panic and retreated. Romulus, desperate as he was, began to pray to Jupiter, vowing to build a temple in his honour should they succeed.
As the battle continued, fought entirely at close quarters, chaos peaked when the leader of the Sabine army, Mettius Curtius, plunged into a deep and muddy swamp together with his horse - surrounded by the treacherous enemy and pulled down by the weight of his own armour.
But fortune seemed to walk beside him that day, for the end that awaited him was as bleak as it was certain, and only the intervention of his troops spared him from that destiny.
The decisive moment had come when the abducted women themselves intervened.
Just as the brutal battle had reached its crimson summit, the young Sabine women - now mothers and wives - rushed onto the battlefield and threw themselves between the raging armies. Pleading for peace, they appealed to their fathers on one side and their husbands on the other, desperately urging them to stop killing one another.

The women succeeded, and their noble act led to a truce between the armies. Eventuallly, the two tribes merged under one joint rule of Romulus and Tatius, the king of the Sabines.
The tribe integrated into Rome, and contributed further to the city’s institutions and its population. The two kings ruled peacefully together, until Tatius was murdered a few years later during a town riot, and Romulus could declare himself the sole ruler over his empire once again.

This particular piece of history is commonly known as “The Rape of the Sabine Women”.
It is a challenging and uncomfortable subject to write about, but it does remain an important part of Roman mythology that cannot be overlooked.
As historical writer specializing in Ancient Rome, I would like to draw attention to a few details I find important to highlight, and while these facts may not alter or dilute the severity of the abduction itself, they might serve to provide clarity.

“The Rape of the Sabine Women” is yet another foundational myth in Rome’s legendary history, and while the women were forcibly taken and compelled into marriage, it does not necessarily imply sexual assault in the modern sense.
The Latin phrase “raptio Sabinarum” is often translated to “abduction” or “kidnapping”. The English word “rape” primarily stems from the Latin word “raptio”, meaning “abduction” or “seizure” ( from “rapere” – “to seize” ).
In the Ancient context it is often implied as forcible carrying off, and ancient authors stress that no immediate sexual assault occurred during the abduction itself.
Nevertheless, it does not change the cruelty of the crime itself.

The abduction of the Sabine women is considered a foundational myth rather than a strict historical fact. However, historians generally agree that it does reflect a kernel of truth about the actual historical integration of the Sabine tribe into early Rome.
The overarching consensus is that the tale was heavily embellished and adapted by Roman historians as propaganda, serving to glorify its military strength and underline Roman “family values”.
The merging of the Romans and the Sabines is an archaeological and historical truth. The tale of the abduction is widely interpreted as a symbolic or mythologized representation of how these tribes were joined together.
As we continue our journey through Ancient Rome, I am curious to find out your thoughts and feelings about this particular piece of history, dear reader.
What do you believe to be the truth? And is there anything in particular you would like me to cover in the future? Let me know in the comments!

SOURCES
SPQR by Mary Beard
Römische Geschichte - Leopold von Ranke
Wikipedia

The fig.
It is a secret kept in purple velvet. A petite, self-contained cosmos in which its flowers bloom in absolute darkness on the inside, hidden from the rest of the world.
The shell speaks to us in a dusty shade of dusk in late August - a deep and mysterious violet, shades of bruised gold, and a soft forest green.
It holds a heavy, sun-warmed weight in the palm, almost like a drop of concentrated heat captured before the chill of Autumn arrives.
Once split open, the plump pouch reveals a luscious heart of vivid, jammy crimson, unveiling to us a jungle of hundreds of tiny flowers that look remarkably like an ancient map. Its floral, honey-like sweetness paired with the slightest hint of ripe berries and a subtle, earthy undertone of nuts brings back memories of an Italian summer spent in the countryside. To bite a fig is to taste a sun-drenched noon - soft, heavy with heat, and dripping with dark, crunchy honey. Once the skin has been cracked and the flavours dance in a beautiful symphony upon the tongue, its jammy sweetness and the deep, dark chords of bruised berries feel like an ancient secret finally revealed.
In comparison to apples and pomegranates, the fig played a smaller role of its own in mythology, and yet it was seen as more than just nourishment - in the ancient world, the fig carried both meaning and stories waiting to be unravelled.

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In Ancient Rome, the fig occupied an important place in mythology, spirituality and religion, as it was tightly tethered to fertility and prosperity, to divine protection and even the very foundation of the city of Rome itself.
The Ficus Ruminalis plays perhaps the most important role for the Romans, as it is known as the sacred fig tree under which the twin brothers Romulus and Remus found shelter after being ordered to death by King Amulius. It stood as a silent monument in their forum for over a thousand years as a liminal space between the unpredictable forces of wilderness and the protection of civilization.
The tree was replanted for roughly 1,140 years, but with the rise of Christianity in the 4th century AD and the banishment of all pagan rituals by emperor Theodosius I, the sacred Roman priesthoods were dissolved, the funding for pagan omens was stopped and the ritual of the Ficus Ruminalis eventually died.
Theodosius I was not just a politician ruling the empire of Rome, he was also deeply devoted to Nicene Christianity and strongly believed if Rome were to allow pagan rituals to continue, the wrath of the Christian God would wash over his lands. A single, unified religion was supposed to be the bridge to political stability, spiritual salvation and the anchor to his own power.

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In Paganism and mythology, however, Bacchus embodied the god of wine, festivity and theatre to the Romans, and - as patron of both arts and agriculture - was celebrated for his ‘joyous ecstasy’ of the grapevine and the wild, untamed forces of nature.
Regarded by the ancient Romans as a present from Bacchus, the fig with its immense sweetness and abundant summer yields, was used as altar offering during the Bacchanalian festivals to invoke joy and prosperous harvests.
In a world constantly threatened by hunger and famine, the fig was seen as ultimate evidence for a generous universe - a beacon of divine abundance due to the sheer, overwhelming amount of fruit the tree produces.
According to Roman mythology, before humans learned to grow grain and flourish on their own, they lived in the Golden Age, sustained effortlessly by a bountyful earth while wild fig tress blanketed the Italian countryside in abundance. The tree stood as surviving present from that era, silently proving that the Gods still bestowed nourishment to mankind with grace and ease.

Figs are rich in sugar, which made it possible for the ancient Romans to dry and store them for months at a time.
They were paired with cheeses, cooked into a glossy, dark-amber coloured syrup, and even carried on strings by Roman soldiers on military campaigns for energy.
Pliny the Elder wrote passionately and extensively about them in his encyclopedia, Naturalis Historia, referring to the fruit as both strengthening and vitalising. As Romans associated figs with recovery, longevity and even youthfulness, they simmered them into pastes on their own or were mashed and combined with olive oil.

"Figs are restorative, and the best food that can be taken by those who are brought low by long sickness and are on the way to recovery. They increase the strength of young people, preserve the elderly in better health, and make them look younger with fewer wrinkles."
Pliny the Elder

In my search I stumbled upon a few ancient surviving recipes, but one stood out to me in particular - a recipe beautifully simple, and yet inviting and comforting:
Miele di Fichi, and while it translates to Fig Honey, bees actually play no part in it at all.
In Ancient Rome, pure honey was expensive and only few could effort the luxury. When a Mediterranean summer came to an end, fig trees would produce an immense amount of ripe fruit all at once, which was simmered down into a glossy, sweet syrup almost instantly to prevent the figs from spoiling.
This recipe has survived for over 2,000 years and is still being kept alive today, especially in the Southern Italian region of Calabria.
I have read through a few different recipes for Miele di Fichi, and every single one of of them taught me the same: it is beautifully simple, and all you need for your own fig syrup is a sufficient amount of ripe figs and water.
Below, I wish to share the recipe with you:

INGREDIENTS: 1-2 kg of ripe, soft fresh figs
water

STEP 1:
Clean your figs and slice them in half or quarters. Place them in a large pot and cover them completely with cold water. Cover the pot with a lid and bring to a boil, then drop the heat to a low simmer. Let them cook gently for 3-4 hours, while the figs turn completely soft, and the water will become dark and fragrant.

STEP 2:
Turn off the heat and let the mixture sit for a few hours - or preferably overnight. This way the fruit fully surrenders its sugar to the liquid.
Pour everything through a clean cloth or a fine sieve into a bowl or another pot, while gently pressing to wring out every last drop of liquid, leaving the seeds and the skin behind.

STEP 3:
Return the strained juice to a clean pot or a saucepan and let it simmer - now uncovered - for another 2-3 hours while stirring occassionally, until the liquid becomes a thick, glossy dark amber-coloured syrup.
To know when it is finished, drop a spoonful onto a cold plate. If it runs like water, keep it simmering. If it cools into thick ribbons like honey, remove it from the heat right away.
Pour your Miele di Fichi into a clean glass jar, let it cool completely and enjoy the sweet taste of a Mediterranean summer!

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In a final comparison between Roman and Greek mythology, it is evident that the fig itself is deeply woven into a single, foundational narrative in Roman mythology, while Greek mythology is richer in its quantity and variety of tales told about it, involving Gods, heroes, transformations and mythic integrations. The fig feels like a vibrant part of the natural and divine world.
And yet, the core symbolism of fertility, abundance and sensuality remains throughout both Roman and Greek mythology.
To the ancients, the fig was far more than mere sustenance - it was a thread for the soul which they wove into the tapestry of their spiritual cosmos. Just as the fig tree folds its blossoms inward to shield its beauty from the world, ancient cultures folded their deepest, most sacred truths into the sanctuary of a myth. They chose not to leave their profound insights on life and death out in the open, choosing instead to seal that secret wisdom inside the shell of a story. The surface is easily touched, but to truly taste the depth of mythology, one must break through the rough, leathery skin to find the delicate, sacred blossoms thriving in the dark.

As I mentioned in my recent piece about the Archaeology of the Palatine Hill, I believe classical mythology to be endlessly enchanting and also of profound importance. The myths posses a quiet power to draw back the veil on hidden truths and guide our gaze inward, while leaving its footprint even in the dusty fragments of archaeology.
I would love to know if mythology speaks to you as well? Is it a source of inspiration and wisdom in your life, or simply a collection of beautiful tales? And speaking of sweet traditions - how do you feel about the Miele di Fichi? Will you try your hand at crafting its liquid gold?

Let me know in the comments!

Dearest Imperial Patrons and members of the Silken Senate,

following the recently published essay on the legend of Romulus and Remus and the traditional founding date of Rome in the year 753 BC, I now wish to draw your gaze beyond the realm of mythology and toward the actual archaeology of the Palatine Hill, where the remnants of Iron Age life still endure beneath layers of Roman history.

If we begin our journey in chronological order, the infamous Lupercal - the shadowed grotto where, according to tradition, Romulus and Remus were saved and nursed back to strength by a she-wolf - is our first destination.
Before we turn further into the archaeology of their world, I would like to recall a passage from the essay that captures the true significance of this location.

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It was a warm Spring day in the mid-8^th century BC where the air hung heavy with the weight of a legend, as if the very air understood we had stepped beyond the reach of parchment and ink, and into the breathing pulse of a myth.

In awe, we let our gaze wander across the land of Alba Longa. It was an ancient city, founded by Ascanius, son of Aeneas, perched upon the Alban Hills where the future ghost of Rome yet slumbered in the soil.
Alba Longa was not a grand marble city as those said to have been inhabited by the illustrious and powerful Greek Gods, but rather a long and narrow settlement clinging to a ridge above the stillness of Lake Albano. Here, the simple dwellings of wood and wattle-and-daub huddle together in a quiet intimacy, held within the austere and protective embrace of sharpened wooden palisades.
The air carried the heavy perfume of woodsmoke from the nearby hearth, the crisp, invigorating breath of the surrounding pine trees, and the damp, earthy fragrance that rises from the lakeside.
Below, the dark and volcanic eye of the lake reflectes the bright, cloudless sky with the clarity of a polished mirror, while in the distance, a shepherd guides his flock across the slopes and into a vast, rolling sea of chlorophyll.

At the Zenith of this Ancient society sat Amulius, a tyrant whose authority was forged in the cold fires of betrayal. Having seized the throne from his elder brother, Numitor, he cast him into the shadows of banishment - a ghost in his own lands, a King without a crown.
To ensure that Numitor’s descendants could not ever reclaim what was rightfully theirs, Amulius ordered the execution for Numitor’s sons and forced his only daughter, Rhea Silvia, to become a Vestal Virgin to prevent any further male heirs from challenging him. Rhea Silvia, now a priestess sworn to thirty years of chastity, and the tending to the sacred Fire of Vesta, was bound to a vow that was not her own, and breaking that vow would have carried heavy consequences for her. The question of her own desire mattered little against the weight of a decree that carried the ultimate penalty, for any fracture in her devotion would have been followed by the death penalty, and Rhea Silvia would have been sentenced to being buried alive.
To Amulius, it seemed he had finally extinguished every flame that carried a threat and quenched the very last sparks of danger.

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And yet, despite Amulius’ desperate efforts, Rhea Silvia fell pregnant and gave birth to twins in the modest quarters of the sacred precinct dedicated to the Goddess Vesta, the guardian of the hearth, home, family and the sacred fire.
This was no grand convent like the later “House of Vestals”. Rhea Silvia lived in an era where the Vestal Virgins had no elaborate palace to reside in yet.
The space was dim and poorly lit, the floor was but beaten-earth, low wooden beams held up the ceiling, and the walls were made from woven branches that have been plastered with clay – a small constellation of simple rooms near the sacred hearth of the community. Light filtered in slender fragments through the doorway as Rhea Silvia underwent the heavy pains of labour. The atmosphere was one of enforced quiet and piety, but the tension that was lingering in the air was almost palpable as she was attended to by women of the household and older, more experienced priestesses.
Outside, a gentle breeze that carried more than the bouquet of Spring moved through the trees of the Alban countryside, for it was whispered that the father of the twins was Mars, the God of War, himself, who came to visit the daughter of Numitor one night in her sacred grove.

As Amulius learned of the birth, his rage was immediate and untamed. Furious at the threat to his rule, he ordered the newborns to be drowned in the Tiber. Those infants cannot be allowed to live!
The twins were taken from her mother, and a servant of Amulius carried them in a shallow, woven basket down from the hills and toward the wild und unruly river, several miles away.
In this era, the Tiber was not the channelled, bridged river that it is known for today, but a powerful, meandering force of nature. It was wider in some places, prone to sudden flooding, with marshy banks, reed beds, and wooden edges, alive with the deep, clear waters pouring down from the Apennines.
The Gods, on the other hand, seemed to favour the twins, for the servant that was tasked with the gruesome deed took pity on the newborns, and instead of drowning them himself, he placed the wooden basket in the waters of the Tiber, abandoning them and leaving Romulus and Remus to their fate in the roaring current of the waters.
The basket was carried downstream and washed ashore at the foot of the Palatine Hill under a wild, sacred fig tree whose roots clutched the earth like ancient fingers.
It was here, in the shadowed embrace of the Lupercal, that the twins came to rest and found their sanctuary in a damp, rocky grotto with a small spring softly trickling inside. Moss and ferns clung to the walls while the constant drip of water turned into a serene and almost soothing thrum.
The entrance to the grotto was shielded by trailing vines, wild bushes and the thick, gnarled roots of the fig tree that overhung the cave from above. Damp ferns and lush greenery from the grove added to the sense of a hidden, wild sanctuary where the river met the hill. It was a place between lands, neither fully river nor fully land.
Here, between the wilderness and the first stirrings of human fate, a she-wolf had come to the cave, drawn by the thin, piercing sounds of the crying infants.
The Lupa lowered her head, and the twins were nursed by the wolf as if they were her own children, while a woodpecker - sacred to Mars - kept his watchful vigil from the branches above.

Not far from this hidden grotto, where the land gentled into a clearing of vibrant emeralds, where the air carried the perfume of freshly cut grass and crushed, wild herbs, the shepherd Faustulus and his wife, Acca Larentia, have made a humble hut their loving home. It was a simple dwelling of the old Latin way – wooden posts driven up deep into the earth, walls woven of branches and thickly plastered with clay, and a steep thatched roof that smelled of dried grass when baked by the sun.
As the golden light cast its mosaic through the thick canopy of oaks along the riverbank, Faustulus, together with his flock of sheep, made his way down the steep slopes of the Palatine Hill, his feet treading familiar paths worn by years of tending the royal herds through these untamed hills.
The gentle rumble that came from the sheep and the occasional bark of his dog were the only sounds breaking the quiet rhythm – until something unnatural caught his ear.
A thin, persistent, almost human cry was rising from the mysterious cave at the foot of the hill.
Drawn by curiosity, with a strange unease running through his veins, he left his animals to their grazing, pushed through the undergrowth of the grotto and discovered the twins. Moved by their fate, he carried them back home to his wife, and together they raised them, naming them Romulus and Remus.

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The twins grew up in a simple and modest home. They had learned to help their father with the sheep, and they spend their years in the outstretching fields and up the hills of Alba Longa, never knowing that the land beneath their feet, the land that was ruled by King Amulius, was their own to claim.
They did not have much, but it was enough for Romulus and Remus to grow into tall, strong and fearless men. As they ran barefoot across the hills, the wind whipping around their faces tasting like freedom, they had learned to safely navigate the thickets and marshes along the Tiber, to throw spears, to wrestle and to hunt small animals. Together with other young shepherds their age, they raided neighbouring herds when they felt wronged, and defended their own flocks from wolves and bandits.
Romulus and Remus were known for their courage, their justice toward the weak, and their ferocity against thieves and tyrants.

One day, during the festival of Lupercalia, they were ambushed by a party of Amulius’ men, and Remus, although strong and fierce himself, was overpowered and captured, and brought to the palace before the treacherous King.
Romulus, livid with fury, gathered a band of young warriors and together they went to attack the palace.
The assault was brutal and tumultuous. Many men were hurt and even more were left on the battlefield. Eventually, the battle was won, Remus was freed by his twin brother, and Amulius’ was life was ended.
Numitor, the grandfather of the twins and rightful King of Alba Longa, had been reinstated to the throne after years of exile.
Romulus and Remus, the two infants that had been nursed back to strength by the Lupa and brought up by the selfless shepherd and his kind-hearted wife, were now grown up and given permission to set out to found their own city.
Together, they decided on the site of their miraculous survival for their future realm, but even twin-brothers of royal blood and divine origin were not always to agree with each other, and so the exact whereabouts of their metropolis became a subject of disagreement.
Romulus favoured the Palatine Hill, Remus preferred the Aventine Hill.

To settle the matter, they turned to the Gods through the Ritual of Augury, and the brothers separated. Remus took his position on the Aventine, his curved staff – a lituus – in his hand, and Romulus did the exact same on Palatine.
In silence they waited, attentively watching the skies, both their hearts were pounding with the awareness that the next wings to break the horizon would carry the will of the Gods.
Remus was the first to receive his omen in the form of six vultures in the sky, but Romulus saw twelve, and a fierce dispute erupted between the two of them. Both claimed to have received the favourable omen and, therefore, insisted on victory.
Words of accusation and wounded pride flew like arrows between the two hills, growing sharper and hotter with every breath, until the very air between the brothers seemed to crackle and burn with unspoken betrayal.

Unbothered, Romulus turned away from his brother and began tracing the first boundaries of his very own city. The air filled with the fragrant scent of freshly broken earth as he and his men began their labour, and soon the first walls were raised from the grounds.
Remus could endure it no longer. Beside himself, and with a face darkened by scorn, he strode forward and in one contemptuous motion he leaped across the nascent wall, mocking his brother and declaring that such fragile defences could never hold back a true enemy.
In one single, shattering instant, the last remaining threads of brotherhood snapped, and a blinding rage began to course through Romulus like a river breaking its banks. In the heat of the moment, steel was flashed, the blade found its mark, and Remus fell.
The wind seemed to still entirely, the birds fell silent, and in the heavy quiet that followed, only Romulus remained, standing alone where Rome was being born, declaring:

Alone in his ambition, Romulus proceeded to build his city upon the heights of the Palatine Hill, now standing as the single ruler who bestowed his own name upon the rising walls of Rome as a lasting testament. It was a moment eventually marked in the ledgers of history by scholars like Marcus Terentius Varro, fixing the date to be the 21st of April in the year 753 BC.
The shadow of fratricide remained an act that became a powerful, yet haunting emblem of the eternal city, serving as a chilling reminder of the brutal sacrifices required to forge an empire and the inevitability of the internal conflict that would wind itself through the centuries of Roman history like a dark and ancient serpent.

In the present day, the figure of the she-wolf nursing the infant brothers remains the most potent emblem of Roman identity, preserved for eternity in a famous bronze statue that commands the attention of all who enter the hushed halls of the Capitoline Museum.
Legend speaks of the twins having been found in the shadowed sanctuary of the Lupercal at the very foot of the Palatine Hill, a place that remains a meticulously preserved archaeological site to this day.
Recent excavations have unearthed the silent remnants of settlements reaching back to the 8th century BC, weaving a thread of historical truth into the tapestry of legend and confirming the ancient timeline that placed the city's beginning in the year 753 BC.

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