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Rome

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"I thought I knew everything when I came to Rome, but I soon found I had everything to learn."
- Edmonia Lewis

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Hi, Eric Millman, here.  If you’ve done some of our other tours in Italy, you should know that for as much of the last fifteen years I’ve spent living in and around this country, I spend just about as much time devoting myself to the study and dissemination of its culture as I do criticizing it.  And Rome, in particular, can be an especially harsh place to live, until you round a corner and get utterly gobsmacked by some other bit of beauty that has withstood the test of time.  

Of course, much of what many of us might consider to be beautiful, functional, or intelligent has its origins here: by some measures, the Roman Empire served as the font of Western Civilization as we know it, reaching heights in governance, infrastructure, architecture, and general culture that few others can claim.  My intention with this walk, then, was to show you the best of what Rome has to offer within a concentrated, walkable radius.  And no doubt you’ll see quite a lot of that.

In designing this walk, I found that the more I investigated, the more I found myself buying into the concept of some kind of singular Roman supremacy. You might notice, for example, “SPQR” inscribed everywhere, from statues to manholes.  This doesn’t mean, “sono pazzi, questi romani (they’re crazy, these Romans),” as an old cartoon jokes, but rather “Senatus Populus Que Romanus,” referring to both the Roman Senate and its people, as if these glories were connected directly to both.  

The truth, though, is that the road to Rome’s greatness was not quite so direct.  From the Ancient Greeks to the Etruscans to the Roman Kingdom, Roman Republic, Roman Empire, the Vatican, the Austrians, the fascists and beyond, everything you’ll see on this walk was built by a constantly shifting power dynamic of violent exploitation and violent rebellion, with each successive power paving over or claiming the accomplishments of the one before it while spilling countless buckets of blood.  It’s for this reason, I think, that Rome can be harsh: it’s this constant exposure to the best and worst of mankind that breeds a certain skepticism that I consider quite valuable.  I’m hoping that with this walk, we can enjoy some of Rome’s very best treasures while considering the history of struggle behind them, so much of which remains relevant today.

Our walk begins on the cusp of the famous Piazza Navona, in the shadow of the former fascist campaign headquarters of Palazzo Braschi.  Mere steps from where a giant likeness of Mussolini’s face leered suspiciously over the southern end of this building, we find an unlikely counter for such dictators: a tiny, half-decimated stone statue named Pasquino.

Though he is believed to have originally adorned a stadium in Piazza Navona in the 3rd century B.C., “Pasquino” was found thus amputated at the end of the 1400s and transferred here by Cardinal Olivera Carafa, who was leasing the house that once stood here.  Carafa also happened to be one Rome’s earliest proponents of the printing press. 

The Cardinal also was a central figure in the development of a feast rooted in classical traditions and devoted to Pasquino (believed to be named after a schoolmaster, or perhaps a very sarcastic tailor), one that involved sticking “short, humorous poems” onto the statue.  

Of course, at first the Cardinal tried to curate the poems in favor of the Pope.  Given that the statue was in the public realm, though, and that Pope Alexander VI was openly prone to nepotism, and to knocking up his mistresses, Pasquino became a sounding board for all sorts of anti-papal satire, which Romans would stick to his pedestal under cover of night, much to the delight of the public by morning.  This type of poetic protest even took on its own literary form over the years, called the pasquinade, a tradition which spread to dissenters in England and the United States as well.

As we’ll see again and again throughout our walk, the Romans have had millennia of practice in sharpening their tongues in the face of unreasonable leadership.  Despite several attempts to outlaw this tradition over the centuries, including one Pope who threatened to throw Pasquino into the river, it spawned five other statue parlanti, or, “Talking Statues” in Rome, as well as one in Venice and another in Milan.  Under strict Papal rule, and later under Mussolini, the freedoms of the press were highly restricted, so these statues provided a crucial outlet for the disillusioned.  For example, as Mussolini spent a fortune to welcome Hitler to the city as Romans were starving in the street, imagine that someone actually tiptoed past fascist headquarters, risking considerable harm to their person, and actually pinned this on Pasquino: “Cardboards and facades lined Roman streets/ When a failed house painter and fascist dictator meet.”  I gotta say: I love how they reduce Hitler to “a failed house painter.”  Perfect.

It’s now forbidden to paste things to the actual statue, but hopefully there are some good zingers on the board alongside.  Let’s follow the right flank of the Palazzo Braschi, along the Via San Pantaleo, past the piazza where Mussolini once leered, toward the famed bustle of the Campo de’ Fiori.


29 Via di Santa Maria dell'Anima \|||// Hi, Eric Millman, here.  If you’ve done some of our other tours in Italy, you should know that for as much of the last fifteen years I’ve spent living in and around this country, I spend just about as much time devoting myself to the study and dissemination of its culture as I do criticizing it.  And Rome, in particular, can be an especially harsh place to live, until you round a corner and get utterly gobsmacked by some other bit of beauty that has withstood the test of time.  

Of course, much of what many of us might consider to be beautiful, functional, or intelligent has its origins here: by some measures, the Roman Empire served as the font of Western Civilization as we know it, reaching heights in governance, infrastructure, architecture, and general culture that few others can claim.  My intention with this walk, then, was to show you the best of what Rome has to offer within a concentrated, walkable radius.  And no doubt you’ll see quite a lot of that.

In designing this walk, I found that the more I investigated, the more I found myself buying into the concept of some kind of singular Roman supremacy. You might notice, for example, “SPQR” inscribed everywhere, from statues to manholes.  This doesn’t mean, “sono pazzi, questi romani (they’re crazy, these Romans),” as an old cartoon jokes, but rather “Senatus Populus Que Romanus,” referring to both the Roman Senate and its people, as if these glories were connected directly to both.  

The truth, though, is that the road to Rome’s greatness was not quite so direct.  From the Ancient Greeks to the Etruscans to the Roman Kingdom, Roman Republic, Roman Empire, the Vatican, the Austrians, the fascists and beyond, everything you’ll see on this walk was built by a constantly shifting power dynamic of violent exploitation and violent rebellion, with each successive power paving over or claiming the accomplishments of the one before it while spilling countless buckets of blood.  It’s for this reason, I think, that Rome can be harsh: it’s this constant exposure to the best and worst of mankind that breeds a certain skepticism that I consider quite valuable.  I’m hoping that with this walk, we can enjoy some of Rome’s very best treasures while considering the history of struggle behind them, so much of which remains relevant today.

Our walk begins on the cusp of the famous Piazza Navona, in the shadow of the former fascist campaign headquarters of Palazzo Braschi.  Mere steps from where a giant likeness of Mussolini’s face leered suspiciously over the southern end of this building, we find an unlikely counter for such dictators: a tiny, half-decimated stone statue named Pasquino.

Though he is believed to have originally adorned a stadium in Piazza Navona in the 3rd century B.C., “Pasquino” was found thus amputated at the end of the 1400s and transferred here by Cardinal Olivera Carafa, who was leasing the house that once stood here.  Carafa also happened to be one Rome’s earliest proponents of the printing press. 

The Cardinal also was a central figure in the development of a feast rooted in classical traditions and devoted to Pasquino (believed to be named after a schoolmaster, or perhaps a very sarcastic tailor), one that involved sticking “short, humorous poems” onto the statue.  

Of course, at first the Cardinal tried to curate the poems in favor of the Pope.  Given that the statue was in the public realm, though, and that Pope Alexander VI was openly prone to nepotism, and to knocking up his mistresses, Pasquino became a sounding board for all sorts of anti-papal satire, which Romans would stick to his pedestal under cover of night, much to the delight of the public by morning.  This type of poetic protest even took on its own literary form over the years, called the pasquinade, a tradition which spread to dissenters in England and the United States as well.

As we’ll see again and again throughout our walk, the Romans have had millennia of practice in sharpening their tongues in the face of unreasonable leadership.  Despite several attempts to outlaw this tradition over the centuries, including one Pope who threatened to throw Pasquino into the river, it spawned five other statue parlanti, or, “Talking Statues” in Rome, as well as one in Venice and another in Milan.  Under strict Papal rule, and later under Mussolini, the freedoms of the press were highly restricted, so these statues provided a crucial outlet for the disillusioned.  For example, as Mussolini spent a fortune to welcome Hitler to the city as Romans were starving in the street, imagine that someone actually tiptoed past fascist headquarters, risking considerable harm to their person, and actually pinned this on Pasquino: “Cardboards and facades lined Roman streets/ When a failed house painter and fascist dictator meet.”  I gotta say: I love how they reduce Hitler to “a failed house painter.”  Perfect.

It’s now forbidden to paste things to the actual statue, but hopefully there are some good zingers on the board alongside.  Let’s follow the right flank of the Palazzo Braschi, along the Via San Pantaleo, past the piazza where Mussolini once leered, toward the famed bustle of the Campo de’ Fiori.


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Pasquino

Tour Item

01IntroPasquinoScored.mp3

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The Campo de’ Fiori, or Field of Flowers: by day one of the city’s oldest and flashiest outdoor markets, by night one of its most popular areas for getting drunk, particularly for foreigners like me.  What better place to begin our walk, at any time of day?

Though you’re surely liable to find a bouquet for sale here amongst the artichokes and refrigerator magnets, the Campo de’ Fiori is so-named because it was once, simply enough, an open field.  Today, however, it represents an historic act of cruelty, one that would resonate for centuries to come.

As the pedestal notes, this is a tribute “A Bruno,” meaning, “to [Giordano] Bruno,” a man who was burned alive at the stake on this spot back in the year 1600.  Who was this man, you might ask?  Well, he was a badass.  An arrogant, stubborn badass and Hermetic philosopher whose ideas flipped the theological community on its head.  So much so, I guess, that he got himself burnt for it.

Shortly after Copernicus suggested that the sun was at the center of the universe, Bruno went even further, proposing that the universe could be infinite, and therefore had no center, that the stars in the sky could be other suns with other planets revolving around those.  Even more, he taught banned literature and rejected notions of Mary’s virginity, the Holy Trinity, and eternal damnation, while preferring the idea that God existed in all things, instead of being a big guy with a white beard who discussed policy with the Pope.  

For these theories, and the fact that he was apparently an unrepentant, sarcastic jerk, the Church drove a stake through his tongue, paraded him here, and burned him for all to see.  In fact, unlike Galileo, whose own heliocentric beliefs found the Inquisition simply placing him on house arrest a mere thirty-three years later, Bruno has yet to receive so much as an apology from the Church, and remains excommunicated.  

The statue was erected in 1889, just 18 years after Rome was named capital of the newly unified Italy despite the wishes of the Vatican, which wanted to retain its authority over the city, and five years after Pope Leo XIII published a letter denouncing Freemasonry.  Bruno’s sculptor, Ettore Ferrari, was a Grand Master of the Freemasons and a huge advocate for a secular, unified Italy, and he and his fellow masons rallied together to inaugurate the statue, which glares in the direction of St. Peter’s.  It seems likely, then, that as much as it’s an homage to Bruno, it’s also a big “screw you” to the church, another of many reminders of just how creative these Romans can get when sticking it to authority.

Let’s get out from under the guy’s shadow and head past the Cinema Farnese at Bruno’s back.  Take the Via dei Giubbonari past the famed Roscioli Salumeria until you reach a leafy, lovely Piazza Cairoli, then hang a left.  We’re looking for ruins from there.

44 Piazza Campo de' Fiori \|||// The Campo de’ Fiori, or Field of Flowers: by day one of the city’s oldest and flashiest outdoor markets, by night one of its most popular areas for getting drunk, particularly for foreigners like me.  What better place to begin our walk, at any time of day?

Though you’re surely liable to find a bouquet for sale here amongst the artichokes and refrigerator magnets, the Campo de’ Fiori is so-named because it was once, simply enough, an open field.  Today, however, it represents an historic act of cruelty, one that would resonate for centuries to come.

As the pedestal notes, this is a tribute “A Bruno,” meaning, “to [Giordano] Bruno,” a man who was burned alive at the stake on this spot back in the year 1600.  Who was this man, you might ask?  Well, he was a badass.  An arrogant, stubborn badass and Hermetic philosopher whose ideas flipped the theological community on its head.  So much so, I guess, that he got himself burnt for it.

Shortly after Copernicus suggested that the sun was at the center of the universe, Bruno went even further, proposing that the universe could be infinite, and therefore had no center, that the stars in the sky could be other suns with other planets revolving around those.  Even more, he taught banned literature and rejected notions of Mary’s virginity, the Holy Trinity, and eternal damnation, while preferring the idea that God existed in all things, instead of being a big guy with a white beard who discussed policy with the Pope.  

For these theories, and the fact that he was apparently an unrepentant, sarcastic jerk, the Church drove a stake through his tongue, paraded him here, and burned him for all to see.  In fact, unlike Galileo, whose own heliocentric beliefs found the Inquisition simply placing him on house arrest a mere thirty-three years later, Bruno has yet to receive so much as an apology from the Church, and remains excommunicated.  

The statue was erected in 1889, just 18 years after Rome was named capital of the newly unified Italy despite the wishes of the Vatican, which wanted to retain its authority over the city, and five years after Pope Leo XIII published a letter denouncing Freemasonry.  Bruno’s sculptor, Ettore Ferrari, was a Grand Master of the Freemasons and a huge advocate for a secular, unified Italy, and he and his fellow masons rallied together to inaugurate the statue, which glares in the direction of St. Peter’s.  It seems likely, then, that as much as it’s an homage to Bruno, it’s also a big “screw you” to the church, another of many reminders of just how creative these Romans can get when sticking it to authority.

Let’s get out from under the guy’s shadow and head past the Cinema Farnese at Bruno’s back.  Take the Via dei Giubbonari past the famed Roscioli Salumeria until you reach a leafy, lovely Piazza Cairoli, then hang a left.  We’re looking for ruins from there.

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Giordano Bruno

2BrunoScored.mp3

2bruno.jpg

It’s hard to tell from this vantage point, marred by a giant cat poster, but at one time, Rome’s first permanent theater stood on this spot, built in 55 B.C. by General Pompeo the Great.  Up to this point, before the empire even existed, the publicly-elected senators of the Roman Republic believed that their constituents were spending too much time at the theater and were therefore at risk of becoming morally corrupt. Inspired by a Greek theater he’d seen on a military campaign on the island of Lesbos, Pompeo built this on the edge of the city limits, and included a temple onsite while including several preexisting temples (which you see before you), to ward off the moralists.  Notably, Pompeyos grounds also included a senatorial hall called the Curia, which would prove kind of famous for unexpected reasons.

Five years before the theater’s completion, in 60 B.C. Pompeo had forged an alliance with Julius Caesar and the richest man in Rome, but after some military success against the Gauls, Julius’ popularity dwarfed that of the other two.  After the death of the rich man, Pompeo found his loyalties shifting toward the senatorial elite, who ordered Caesar to dissolve his army.  Caesar ignored this order, instead crossing the northern boundary of the Republic, a shallow river called the Rubicon (hence the phrase, “crossing the Rubicon,” which is used even in English to indicate moving past the point of no return).  This was another “eff you,” this time from Julius Caesar to Pompey and the senators, and it sent them running.  This led to a civil war that killed several of Caesar’s rivals, Pompeo included, and solidified Caesar’s power as dictator for life.  

The remaining senators, concerned that this would mark the end of the Republic, plotted to end Caesar’s reign.  

The philosopher Plutarch, as recalled famously in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, writes that a fortune teller had come to Caesar, warning him that something bad would happen to him on the Ides of March. But on that date, March 15th, 44 B.C., as Julius Caesar passed the seer, he joked that the Ides of March had already come without harm, to which the man retorted, “yes, but they have not gone.”  And so it was here, alongside the tallest tree before you, just left of the circular ruins,” that Julius Caesar was stabbed to death by his own senators.  This sent the government into a period of chaos that effectively ended the Republic and gave rise to a new Roman Empire led by Julius Caesar’s nephew, the Emperor Augustus.

Over time, the stone that comprised Pompeo’s Theater was pillaged to build churches throughout the city, and by the 1200s, it was all but gone, with only the ruins of the temples remaining.  Today, despite a prewar attempt at excavation by an empire-obsessed Mussolini, very little remains of the site of Julius Caesar’s assassination.  

Instead, the site has been claimed by some 350 stray, oft-injured felines; in 1993 a law was passed to establish Rome’s first cat shelter here, one that you can actually visit by taking a staircase down to the same level of the ruins themselves, if you wish to donate time or money there (I’d only do this if you really love cats, as you can’t access the ruins themselves).  

Otherwise, let’s remain at street level and head past the medieval Torre del Papito, or “Little Pope’s Tower,” named for the presumably short Anacletus II, one of a long line of “antipopes” who tried to claim office from the duly elected pope.  We’ll travel forward two millennia to a similarly tragic moment in Rome’s long history of tragedies.

22a Via Florida \|||// It’s hard to tell from this vantage point, marred by a giant cat poster, but at one time, Rome’s first permanent theater stood on this spot, built in 55 B.C. by General Pompeo the Great.  Up to this point, before the empire even existed, the publicly-elected senators of the Roman Republic believed that their constituents were spending too much time at the theater and were therefore at risk of becoming morally corrupt. Inspired by a Greek theater he’d seen on a military campaign on the island of Lesbos, Pompeo built this on the edge of the city limits, and included a temple onsite while including several preexisting temples (which you see before you), to ward off the moralists.  Notably, Pompeyos grounds also included a senatorial hall called the Curia, which would prove kind of famous for unexpected reasons.

Five years before the theater’s completion, in 60 B.C. Pompeo had forged an alliance with Julius Caesar and the richest man in Rome, but after some military success against the Gauls, Julius’ popularity dwarfed that of the other two.  After the death of the rich man, Pompeo found his loyalties shifting toward the senatorial elite, who ordered Caesar to dissolve his army.  Caesar ignored this order, instead crossing the northern boundary of the Republic, a shallow river called the Rubicon (hence the phrase, “crossing the Rubicon,” which is used even in English to indicate moving past the point of no return).  This was another “eff you,” this time from Julius Caesar to Pompey and the senators, and it sent them running.  This led to a civil war that killed several of Caesar’s rivals, Pompeo included, and solidified Caesar’s power as dictator for life.  

The remaining senators, concerned that this would mark the end of the Republic, plotted to end Caesar’s reign.  

The philosopher Plutarch, as recalled famously in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, writes that a fortune teller had come to Caesar, warning him that something bad would happen to him on the Ides of March. But on that date, March 15th, 44 B.C., as Julius Caesar passed the seer, he joked that the Ides of March had already come without harm, to which the man retorted, “yes, but they have not gone.”  And so it was here, alongside the tallest tree before you, just left of the circular ruins,” that Julius Caesar was stabbed to death by his own senators.  This sent the government into a period of chaos that effectively ended the Republic and gave rise to a new Roman Empire led by Julius Caesar’s nephew, the Emperor Augustus.

Over time, the stone that comprised Pompeo’s Theater was pillaged to build churches throughout the city, and by the 1200s, it was all but gone, with only the ruins of the temples remaining.  Today, despite a prewar attempt at excavation by an empire-obsessed Mussolini, very little remains of the site of Julius Caesar’s assassination.  

Instead, the site has been claimed by some 350 stray, oft-injured felines; in 1993 a law was passed to establish Rome’s first cat shelter here, one that you can actually visit by taking a staircase down to the same level of the ruins themselves, if you wish to donate time or money there (I’d only do this if you really love cats, as you can’t access the ruins themselves).  

Otherwise, let’s remain at street level and head past the medieval Torre del Papito, or “Little Pope’s Tower,” named for the presumably short Anacletus II, one of a long line of “antipopes” who tried to claim office from the duly elected pope.  We’ll travel forward two millennia to a similarly tragic moment in Rome’s long history of tragedies.

3caesar.jpg

Street of Assassins

3CaesarScored.mp3

We’re going to move down the Via Florida, which translates to “lush” or “thriving” street, just as the Spaniards intended in naming JLo’s home state.  The Via Florida will then transform ominously into the Via delle Botteghe Oscure, or the “Street of the Dark Shops.”  Though both names are poetic, it’s the latter that I love, so-titled for the various windowless shops which were found here during the Middle Ages.

We’re going to take the second right on the Via Michelangelo Caetani, named for a man who in 1870 led Rome in its transition from Papal State to capital of the newly-formed country.  Apart from his granddaughter, an American socialite who founded a literary magazine called Botteghe Oscure, Michelangelo Caetani was known for being a moderate politician, one who didn’t support acts of radicalism on the path to	ward unification.

On that note: to your left, at #34, you’ll see the bronze face of Aldo Moro, another politician who believed in compromise and moderation.   Moro was the President of the Christian Democrats, Italy’s dominant party in the fifty years after the fall of fascism, and through this role, he led Italy as Prime Minister on two separate occasions.  During his second stint, Moro formed an alliance with the Italian Communist Party -- whose headquarters were actually located around the corner, at Via delle Botteghe Oscure, #4 -- in a momentous event known as the Historic Compromise.  

Once they were freed from their fascist-imposed exile, the Italian Communists would become, after the Christian Democrats, the second-largest party in Italy following the war, and the largest such movement in the Western World.  By 1976, popular support for the Christian Democrats had fallen to 38%, while the Communists had risen to 34%!  In the name of “national solidarity,” Communist party leader Enrico Berlinguer agreed to break from Marxist traditions and Soviet allegiances by forming this compromise with Moro.  Italy’s Communists, after struggling for so many years to build their movement, saw little benefit to the compromise, and its youths were justifiably pissed.  One particularly radical group of leftists, known as the Red Brigades, had had enough of the party’s double-speak and decided to take matters into their own hands.

Consequently, in 1978, precisely 2022 years and one day after the assassination of Julius Caesar, the Red Brigades executed Moro’s bodyguards and kidnapped the President.  Despite seemingly a million and a half opportunities, neither the police nor Moro’s fellow leaders could track down or strike a compromise with the Brigate Rosse, who helped Moro maintain a steady line of discourse with the public for the duration of his abduction.  Finally, on May 9th, halfway between the seat of the Communists and that of the Christian Democrats, Aldo Moro’s body was found riddled with bullets and stuffed in the trunk of a red hatchback right where you are standing now.

Suffice it to say, the event changed Italy forever; the Historic Compromise was proven worthless, and within little more than a decade, both parties were dissolved.  Regardless of one’s thoughts on Moro, who was nothing if not a controversial figure, this strikes me as one of the most tragic, complicated, horrific events in modern history, one that I still can’t quite wrap my head around.  As with the fall of the Roman Republic, Moro’s death put the country in chaos for many years, and we still don’t know exactly who was involved, from his actual kidnappers to the government leaders who failed to protect him.  Let’s continue on about 450 meters away as we move toward the Jewish Ghetto.

8 Via Michelangelo Caetani \|||// We’re going to move down the Via Florida, which translates to “lush” or “thriving” street, just as the Spaniards intended in naming JLo’s home state.  The Via Florida will then transform ominously into the Via delle Botteghe Oscure, or the “Street of the Dark Shops.”  Though both names are poetic, it’s the latter that I love, so-titled for the various windowless shops which were found here during the Middle Ages.

We’re going to take the second right on the Via Michelangelo Caetani, named for a man who in 1870 led Rome in its transition from Papal State to capital of the newly-formed country.  Apart from his granddaughter, an American socialite who founded a literary magazine called Botteghe Oscure, Michelangelo Caetani was known for being a moderate politician, one who didn’t support acts of radicalism on the path to	ward unification.

On that note: to your left, at #34, you’ll see the bronze face of Aldo Moro, another politician who believed in compromise and moderation.   Moro was the President of the Christian Democrats, Italy’s dominant party in the fifty years after the fall of fascism, and through this role, he led Italy as Prime Minister on two separate occasions.  During his second stint, Moro formed an alliance with the Italian Communist Party -- whose headquarters were actually located around the corner, at Via delle Botteghe Oscure, #4 -- in a momentous event known as the Historic Compromise.  

Once they were freed from their fascist-imposed exile, the Italian Communists would become, after the Christian Democrats, the second-largest party in Italy following the war, and the largest such movement in the Western World.  By 1976, popular support for the Christian Democrats had fallen to 38%, while the Communists had risen to 34%!  In the name of “national solidarity,” Communist party leader Enrico Berlinguer agreed to break from Marxist traditions and Soviet allegiances by forming this compromise with Moro.  Italy’s Communists, after struggling for so many years to build their movement, saw little benefit to the compromise, and its youths were justifiably pissed.  One particularly radical group of leftists, known as the Red Brigades, had had enough of the party’s double-speak and decided to take matters into their own hands.

Consequently, in 1978, precisely 2022 years and one day after the assassination of Julius Caesar, the Red Brigades executed Moro’s bodyguards and kidnapped the President.  Despite seemingly a million and a half opportunities, neither the police nor Moro’s fellow leaders could track down or strike a compromise with the Brigate Rosse, who helped Moro maintain a steady line of discourse with the public for the duration of his abduction.  Finally, on May 9th, halfway between the seat of the Communists and that of the Christian Democrats, Aldo Moro’s body was found riddled with bullets and stuffed in the trunk of a red hatchback right where you are standing now.

Suffice it to say, the event changed Italy forever; the Historic Compromise was proven worthless, and within little more than a decade, both parties were dissolved.  Regardless of one’s thoughts on Moro, who was nothing if not a controversial figure, this strikes me as one of the most tragic, complicated, horrific events in modern history, one that I still can’t quite wrap my head around.  As with the fall of the Roman Republic, Moro’s death put the country in chaos for many years, and we still don’t know exactly who was involved, from his actual kidnappers to the government leaders who failed to protect him.  Let’s continue on about 450 meters away as we move toward the Jewish Ghetto.

4moro.jpg

Memorial of Aldo Moro

4MoroScored.mp3

4moro1.jpg

Having traveled back to ancient times, we’re now looking at the Portico d’Ottavia, a colonnade built around 27 B.C. by Julius Caesar’s successor, Augustus, in honor of his sister, Ottavia.  It’s often overshadowed by its neighbor, the Theater of Marcello, the largest theater of its day and the first Roman building to utilize brick, and don’t worry: you’ll get to see that in a moment.  For now, I’d like to bring your attention to a more quirky, disturbing bit of history.

Originally built around two ancient temples, the Portico would become a fish market that lasted from the Middle Ages all the way to the 19th century.  It was so entrenched that it inspired the name of the neighboring church, La Chiesa di Sant'Angelo in Pescheria, literally “The Church of the Saintly Angel in the Fish Market,” which itself gave its name, Sant’Angelo, to this neighborhood.

One interesting carryover from this period is the marble plaque at the right of the arched entryway.  It reads,“Capita piscium…” See it?  Written in vulgar Latin, it effectively ensured that the head of any fish found longer than this placard would be gifted to the city magistrates.  In those days, the larger stripe of fish, the more valuable, while the head, prized even in ancient times to make a fermented sauce called garum, was still quite valuable for making soup, so it was a good gig back then, as now, to be an Italian bureaucrat.

Finally, I feel that it’s my duty to add an even more somber story to the legacy of this site, which is situated in the second-oldest Jewish ghetto in the world, just behind that of Venice, though this site was founded with far more malicious intent. Pope Paul IV opened his 1555 decree thusly: “Since it is absurd and utterly inconvenient that the Jews, who through their own fault were condemned by God to eternal slavery…” He used this as justification to strip Jews of all civil rights, forcing them into unskilled, loathsome jobs while establishing a ghetto that would remain in place until 1870.  By then, the Jewish population had been halved, and most of those who remained were all but starving.  

Flash forward to the 1930s: though Mussolini’s Racial Laws had again stripped Jews of most of their rights, he largely protected them from certain death.  When Mussolini was removed from power in 1943, though, the Nazis raided the city and demanded that the Jews furnish them with 110 pounds of gold within 48 hours at the risk of the death of 200 men.  Though the community kept their end of the bargain, the Gestapo did not, and, on October 16th they sealed off the ghetto, and rounded up 1,259 people at this very spot.  After filtering out any non-Jews caught in their net, the Germans deported 1,023 human beings, of which only 16 survived.  In remembrance of this horrible day, the street itself is named Largo 16 Ottobre 1943, as you’ll see on a street sign on the red building to your right, which incidentally serves as the city’s Holocause Museum.  Oh, and if you’re interested in learning more, the museum is free to visit, and free tours in English can be arranged when booked in advance.

Though this story is absolutely devastating, it’s also important to keep in mind the many Romans -- including the police officers -- who helped hide thousands of Roman Jews before the roundup even occurred, saving far more lives than were lost.  It’s still heavy, though.

Let’s try to lift things up a bit, heading past the lovely Jewish Synagogue, and then taking a left at the Tiber River, where you’ll see the oldest bridge in Rome.  Keep an eye out for the Teatro Marcello on your left as you pass through the ruins of the Foro Olitorio, or the ancient vegetable market. Crossing that busy boulevard, passing under an ancient archway, we’ll head up a slight incline toward our next destination.

29 Via del Portico d'Ottavia \|||// Having traveled back to ancient times, we’re now looking at the Portico d’Ottavia, a colonnade built around 27 B.C. by Julius Caesar’s successor, Augustus, in honor of his sister, Ottavia.  It’s often overshadowed by its neighbor, the Theater of Marcello, the largest theater of its day and the first Roman building to utilize brick, and don’t worry: you’ll get to see that in a moment.  For now, I’d like to bring your attention to a more quirky, disturbing bit of history.

Originally built around two ancient temples, the Portico would become a fish market that lasted from the Middle Ages all the way to the 19th century.  It was so entrenched that it inspired the name of the neighboring church, La Chiesa di Sant'Angelo in Pescheria, literally “The Church of the Saintly Angel in the Fish Market,” which itself gave its name, Sant’Angelo, to this neighborhood.

One interesting carryover from this period is the marble plaque at the right of the arched entryway.  It reads,“Capita piscium…” See it?  Written in vulgar Latin, it effectively ensured that the head of any fish found longer than this placard would be gifted to the city magistrates.  In those days, the larger stripe of fish, the more valuable, while the head, prized even in ancient times to make a fermented sauce called garum, was still quite valuable for making soup, so it was a good gig back then, as now, to be an Italian bureaucrat.

Finally, I feel that it’s my duty to add an even more somber story to the legacy of this site, which is situated in the second-oldest Jewish ghetto in the world, just behind that of Venice, though this site was founded with far more malicious intent. Pope Paul IV opened his 1555 decree thusly: “Since it is absurd and utterly inconvenient that the Jews, who through their own fault were condemned by God to eternal slavery…” He used this as justification to strip Jews of all civil rights, forcing them into unskilled, loathsome jobs while establishing a ghetto that would remain in place until 1870.  By then, the Jewish population had been halved, and most of those who remained were all but starving.  

Flash forward to the 1930s: though Mussolini’s Racial Laws had again stripped Jews of most of their rights, he largely protected them from certain death.  When Mussolini was removed from power in 1943, though, the Nazis raided the city and demanded that the Jews furnish them with 110 pounds of gold within 48 hours at the risk of the death of 200 men.  Though the community kept their end of the bargain, the Gestapo did not, and, on October 16th they sealed off the ghetto, and rounded up 1,259 people at this very spot.  After filtering out any non-Jews caught in their net, the Germans deported 1,023 human beings, of which only 16 survived.  In remembrance of this horrible day, the street itself is named Largo 16 Ottobre 1943, as you’ll see on a street sign on the red building to your right, which incidentally serves as the city’s Holocause Museum.  Oh, and if you’re interested in learning more, the museum is free to visit, and free tours in English can be arranged when booked in advance.

Though this story is absolutely devastating, it’s also important to keep in mind the many Romans -- including the police officers -- who helped hide thousands of Roman Jews before the roundup even occurred, saving far more lives than were lost.  It’s still heavy, though.

Let’s try to lift things up a bit, heading past the lovely Jewish Synagogue, and then taking a left at the Tiber River, where you’ll see the oldest bridge in Rome.  Keep an eye out for the Teatro Marcello on your left as you pass through the ruins of the Foro Olitorio, or the ancient vegetable market. Crossing that busy boulevard, passing under an ancient archway, we’ll head up a slight incline toward our next destination.

5portico.jpg

Portico d'Ottavio

5PorticoScored.mp3

5portico1.jpg

5portico2.jpg

If you thought the “things” that would be “lifted up” would include the mood on this walk, I’m sorry to inform you that you are wrong.  This is Rome!  Now, there’s a reason we’re currently standing in the Piazza della Consolazione, or the Square of Solace: it’s that jagged bluff overhead, called the Rupe Tarpea, or Tarpeian Cliff.

Dating basically all the way back to its founding, the city was at  war with a neighboring tribe called the Sabines, whose daughters had been robbed by Romulus.  It seems that out of greed, love, or some other ill-advised reason, Tarpeia, the daughter of a Roman general, left a door open and allowed the Sabines to storm the capital.  Rather than showering Tarpeia with gold and gratitude, though, the Sabines bludgeoned the heck out of her with their shields and left her body to rot amongst the rocks before proceeding to claim the citadel, though their victory was short-lived.

From the first recorded vertical execution here in 485 B.C. until the last, around 527 years later, this cliff was reserved for the most deplorable kind of criminal: traitors.  What’s worse (or better, depending on one’s perspective), the public nature of the spot was intentional, and Romans would crowd where you’re standing now to solemnly cheer on gravity, as those at the Colosseum would fervently cheer on the lion.

Long after the hurlings ceased, through the year 1550, the area remained a site of corporal punishment, and the aforementioned church was built here with the intention of consoling those who were committed to death.  So at the very least we can track some progress in humanity.

There should be a staircase just to the right, amidst the weeds.  We -- and by “we” I mean “you” have a slight, five-minute huff up a hill that should prove much easier to conquer than it was for the Sabines, particularly considering that the Capitoline Hill is actually the smallest of the Seven Hills of Rome.  Oh, and be sure to stop halfway to take in that view on your right: you’ll know it when you see it.

24-28 Piazza della Consolazione \|||// If you thought the “things” that would be “lifted up” would include the mood on this walk, I’m sorry to inform you that you are wrong.  This is Rome!  Now, there’s a reason we’re currently standing in the Piazza della Consolazione, or the Square of Solace: it’s that jagged bluff overhead, called the Rupe Tarpea, or Tarpeian Cliff.

Dating basically all the way back to its founding, the city was at  war with a neighboring tribe called the Sabines, whose daughters had been robbed by Romulus.  It seems that out of greed, love, or some other ill-advised reason, Tarpeia, the daughter of a Roman general, left a door open and allowed the Sabines to storm the capital.  Rather than showering Tarpeia with gold and gratitude, though, the Sabines bludgeoned the heck out of her with their shields and left her body to rot amongst the rocks before proceeding to claim the citadel, though their victory was short-lived.

From the first recorded vertical execution here in 485 B.C. until the last, around 527 years later, this cliff was reserved for the most deplorable kind of criminal: traitors.  What’s worse (or better, depending on one’s perspective), the public nature of the spot was intentional, and Romans would crowd where you’re standing now to solemnly cheer on gravity, as those at the Colosseum would fervently cheer on the lion.

Long after the hurlings ceased, through the year 1550, the area remained a site of corporal punishment, and the aforementioned church was built here with the intention of consoling those who were committed to death.  So at the very least we can track some progress in humanity.

There should be a staircase just to the right, amidst the weeds.  We -- and by “we” I mean “you” have a slight, five-minute huff up a hill that should prove much easier to conquer than it was for the Sabines, particularly considering that the Capitoline Hill is actually the smallest of the Seven Hills of Rome.  Oh, and be sure to stop halfway to take in that view on your right: you’ll know it when you see it.

6tarpean3.jpg

Tarpeian Rock

6CliffScored.mp3

6tarpean2.jpg

Upon this perch, called the Campidoglio, from the Latin Capitolinus, surrounded as we are by medieval palaces, once stood Rome's largest temple, a true symbol of Roman might.  So much so, in fact, that we -- the Americans, I mean -- named our own seat of power, the U.S. Capitol, in its honor.

That temple, originally built in 509 B.C., was named forJupiter Capitolinus.  Derived from the Latin world for head, caput, Jupiter was the most important of the three gods who comprised the Capitoline Triad, along with Juno and Minerva, and for over three centuries, Romans would make sacrifices to him here.  With the fall of paganism, the temple was gradually stripped, though even as late as the 6th century, the scholar and politician Cassidorus wrote that “To stand on the lofty Capitol is to see all other works of human intellect surpassed.”

It didn’t always meet such lofty standards, however.  In 1347, a fat, charismatic populist named Cola di Rienzo met fellow conspirators down at the Portico d’Ottavia and marched up here, where he rattled off a number of accusations against the elites. Cola had an eye on restoring Rome to its former glories, uniting the nation under a number of economic and societal reforms, and naming himself dictator in the process.  Once the elites and the commoners each had enough of all of this, they strung him up for several days and threw rocks at his corpse; he was so overweight, it is said, that he burned particularly quickly.

By the Middle Ages, the Vatican had far overshadowed the power of Capitol Hill, but with the impending visit of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in 1538, Pope Paul III was desperate to impress (particularly because Charles had imprisoned Paul’s predecessor).  So, the Pope hired Michelangelo to bring order to the crumbling space.  To start, they shifted the piazza so that it faced the Vatican, not the Forum, while the surrounding buildings were given entirely new facades, amongst other innovations relating to its awkward slope.  

The cobblestone pattern of the piazza, with its overlapping ovals forming a twelve-pointed star, was meant by Michelangelo to represent the twelve constellations of the zodiac revolving around the Caput mundi, or head of the world, which this effectively was in ancient times.  Alas, the church viewed this as an affront to Christianity and placed a statue of whom they believed to be Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, at the center instead (though they beefed it: it’s actually the pagan Emperor Marcus Aurelius).  

Charles V came and went, Michelangelo died, and the project wasn’t yet complete. In fact, it wasn’t until 1940 when Mussolini, with his deluded dreams of restoring Rome’s greatness not yet kaput, finally executed the pattern of the Caput mundi as Michelangelo had intended.

Let’s cruise down Mike’s weirdly flat staircase all slow and easy, and then hang a right at the bottom of the hill toward the chaos of the Piazza Venezia.

 \|||// Upon this perch, called the Campidoglio, from the Latin Capitolinus, surrounded as we are by medieval palaces, once stood Rome's largest temple, a true symbol of Roman might.  So much so, in fact, that we -- the Americans, I mean -- named our own seat of power, the U.S. Capitol, in its honor.

That temple, originally built in 509 B.C., was named forJupiter Capitolinus.  Derived from the Latin world for head, caput, Jupiter was the most important of the three gods who comprised the Capitoline Triad, along with Juno and Minerva, and for over three centuries, Romans would make sacrifices to him here.  With the fall of paganism, the temple was gradually stripped, though even as late as the 6th century, the scholar and politician Cassidorus wrote that “To stand on the lofty Capitol is to see all other works of human intellect surpassed.”

It didn’t always meet such lofty standards, however.  In 1347, a fat, charismatic populist named Cola di Rienzo met fellow conspirators down at the Portico d’Ottavia and marched up here, where he rattled off a number of accusations against the elites. Cola had an eye on restoring Rome to its former glories, uniting the nation under a number of economic and societal reforms, and naming himself dictator in the process.  Once the elites and the commoners each had enough of all of this, they strung him up for several days and threw rocks at his corpse; he was so overweight, it is said, that he burned particularly quickly.

By the Middle Ages, the Vatican had far overshadowed the power of Capitol Hill, but with the impending visit of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in 1538, Pope Paul III was desperate to impress (particularly because Charles had imprisoned Paul’s predecessor).  So, the Pope hired Michelangelo to bring order to the crumbling space.  To start, they shifted the piazza so that it faced the Vatican, not the Forum, while the surrounding buildings were given entirely new facades, amongst other innovations relating to its awkward slope.  

The cobblestone pattern of the piazza, with its overlapping ovals forming a twelve-pointed star, was meant by Michelangelo to represent the twelve constellations of the zodiac revolving around the Caput mundi, or head of the world, which this effectively was in ancient times.  Alas, the church viewed this as an affront to Christianity and placed a statue of whom they believed to be Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, at the center instead (though they beefed it: it’s actually the pagan Emperor Marcus Aurelius).  

Charles V came and went, Michelangelo died, and the project wasn’t yet complete. In fact, it wasn’t until 1940 when Mussolini, with his deluded dreams of restoring Rome’s greatness not yet kaput, finally executed the pattern of the Caput mundi as Michelangelo had intended.

Let’s cruise down Mike’s weirdly flat staircase all slow and easy, and then hang a right at the bottom of the hill toward the chaos of the Piazza Venezia.

7capitol.jpg

The Old Capital

7CapitolScored.mp3

7capitol1.jpg

We’re now standing at one of the most important buildings in Rome’s modern history, called, strangely enough, the Palazzo Venezia.

This irony stems from the fact that the red brick building to the west was donated by the Pope to the Venetians in 1564 as a gesture of goodwill.  In becoming the Venetian Embassy, it was known, quite simply, as the Palazzo Venezia.  Following the Unification of Italy in 1861, a Venetian Embassy was no longer needed in Italy, and subsequently, for much of the 19th century it served as the Austrian Embassy to the Vatican, at least until World War I threw a wrench in Italo-Austrian relations and Italy reclaimed the building.

With the rise of the fascists, Mussolini claimed this as the seat of his government, and used that balcony to deliver most of his key speeches as the people gathered here in the Piazza Venezia,  For one, he announced the new Italian Empire  here on May 9, 1936 following Italy’s victory in the Second Italo-Ethiopian War, proclaiming, “Italy finally has its empire. It is a fascist empire, an empire of peace, an empire of civilization and humanity.”  Um, okay.  It is also the balcony from which he declared war on France and England, and then, in 1941, where he committed the “powers of the pact of steel” and ”250,000,000 men” into war against the United States.  Um, okay.

Two years later, in his final address as Prime Minister on June 24th, Mussolini vowed that the Allies would never reach past the “boot-top of the ship,” choosing an obscure nautical term which he’d intended to mean the shoreline.  This marked the first sign for many that Mussolini had finally cracked, and they were right: within a month he was arrested by his own party, and by September, Rome was captured by the Allies.  

Years ago, I asked an old man in earnest if that was, indeed, Mussolini’s balcony.  He did not seem to appreciate the question.  Let’s head across the street toward the big white building you passed on the way here.

 \|||// We’re now standing at one of the most important buildings in Rome’s modern history, called, strangely enough, the Palazzo Venezia.

This irony stems from the fact that the red brick building to the west was donated by the Pope to the Venetians in 1564 as a gesture of goodwill.  In becoming the Venetian Embassy, it was known, quite simply, as the Palazzo Venezia.  Following the Unification of Italy in 1861, a Venetian Embassy was no longer needed in Italy, and subsequently, for much of the 19th century it served as the Austrian Embassy to the Vatican, at least until World War I threw a wrench in Italo-Austrian relations and Italy reclaimed the building.

With the rise of the fascists, Mussolini claimed this as the seat of his government, and used that balcony to deliver most of his key speeches as the people gathered here in the Piazza Venezia,  For one, he announced the new Italian Empire  here on May 9, 1936 following Italy’s victory in the Second Italo-Ethiopian War, proclaiming, “Italy finally has its empire. It is a fascist empire, an empire of peace, an empire of civilization and humanity.”  Um, okay.  It is also the balcony from which he declared war on France and England, and then, in 1941, where he committed the “powers of the pact of steel” and ”250,000,000 men” into war against the United States.  Um, okay.

Two years later, in his final address as Prime Minister on June 24th, Mussolini vowed that the Allies would never reach past the “boot-top of the ship,” choosing an obscure nautical term which he’d intended to mean the shoreline.  This marked the first sign for many that Mussolini had finally cracked, and they were right: within a month he was arrested by his own party, and by September, Rome was captured by the Allies.  

Years ago, I asked an old man in earnest if that was, indeed, Mussolini’s balcony.  He did not seem to appreciate the question.  Let’s head across the street toward the big white building you passed on the way here.

8venezia.jpg

Palazzo Venezia

8VeneziaScored.mp3

To the left, you will have noticed the National Monument to Vittorio Emmanuele II, or Il Vittoriano, a sprawling marble structure which Romans have nicknamed the torta nuziale, or “wedding cake.”  This is another symbol of Italian patriotism, if not its most glaring, glistening in white amongst the earthen colors of the city.  Designed to commemorate the first king of Italy upon his death in 1878, it was originally intended to be a modern interpretation of the forum, where folks could congregate and play sports and eat snacks, or whatever normal people do.  So much for that: the steps are now behind an iron fence, free to access only by day, while taking in a view from the terrace now requires twelve euros and a decent wait for the elevator.

Though only partially completed, the structure was inaugurated in 1911. Following World War I, Italy’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was located in a crypt beneath Vittorio’s equestrian statue; a flame burns eternally in honor of all fallen Italian soldiers there at the top of the steps, at the Altar of the Fatherland.  

Obviously an American will find this kind of neoclassical architecture quite familiar.  It does share in Washington D.C.’s patriotic fervor, I would say, one that the fascists utilized to celebrate their own victories, much like the ancients had used the Temple of Jupiter.  The whole scene tries to represent a new united nation through a mess of symbols.  For example, I’ll note that the sixteen pillars are capped by bas-relief figures of the sixteen Italian regions at the time of its construction (though there are twenty today).

The Vittoriano is propaganda, no doubt, with no aim at subtlety.  Love it or hate it, you’ve got to admit that it makes an impression, and helps fuel one’s imagination as to how even more grandiose this area must’ve been in ancient times.

Speaking of, let’s wrap up our walk with a stroll through the real deal.  We’re looking for a single column capped with a bronze statue on top.

4289 Piazza di San Marco \|||// To the left, you will have noticed the National Monument to Vittorio Emmanuele II, or Il Vittoriano, a sprawling marble structure which Romans have nicknamed the torta nuziale, or “wedding cake.”  This is another symbol of Italian patriotism, if not its most glaring, glistening in white amongst the earthen colors of the city.  Designed to commemorate the first king of Italy upon his death in 1878, it was originally intended to be a modern interpretation of the forum, where folks could congregate and play sports and eat snacks, or whatever normal people do.  So much for that: the steps are now behind an iron fence, free to access only by day, while taking in a view from the terrace now requires twelve euros and a decent wait for the elevator.

Though only partially completed, the structure was inaugurated in 1911. Following World War I, Italy’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was located in a crypt beneath Vittorio’s equestrian statue; a flame burns eternally in honor of all fallen Italian soldiers there at the top of the steps, at the Altar of the Fatherland.  

Obviously an American will find this kind of neoclassical architecture quite familiar.  It does share in Washington D.C.’s patriotic fervor, I would say, one that the fascists utilized to celebrate their own victories, much like the ancients had used the Temple of Jupiter.  The whole scene tries to represent a new united nation through a mess of symbols.  For example, I’ll note that the sixteen pillars are capped by bas-relief figures of the sixteen Italian regions at the time of its construction (though there are twenty today).

The Vittoriano is propaganda, no doubt, with no aim at subtlety.  Love it or hate it, you’ve got to admit that it makes an impression, and helps fuel one’s imagination as to how even more grandiose this area must’ve been in ancient times.

Speaking of, let’s wrap up our walk with a stroll through the real deal.  We’re looking for a single column capped with a bronze statue on top.

9vittoriana.jpg

Il Vittoriano

9VittorianoScored.mp3

We’re now at the northernmost point of the Via dei Fori Imperiali: the Street of the Imperial Forums, a modern avenue that cuts through the true sociopolitical heart of Ancient Rome and, by extension, that of the Ancient World.  Considering this, it’s impossible to summarize with the little time we have, but I’ll do my best: on the right side of the road, beneath the Baroque cupola of the Church of Saints Luca and Martina you’ll find the Foro Romano (the Forum). If you were to visit the archeological site for 16 euro (including entry to the Colosseum), you’d find the Belly Button of Rome here, a sacrificial pit where all new citizens were required to toss a fistful of the dirt of their homeland, as well as the Comitium, an outdoor space where the very first Senators would convene.  

On the right of the road are individual forums, or public meeting spaces.  Those here were often built ostensibly in homage to a certain deity by Emperors who wished to sway public opinion in their own favor.  Here, these emperors included Trajan, who we’ll discuss first, and Caesar, whose forum once featured his own likeness riding the horse of Alexander the Great, signaling the limitlessness of his power.  Additional forums include that of Augustus, as well as those of Nerva and Vespasian.  So that’s your primer.  For now, I’ll try to focus on some particularly cool details surrounding Trajan’s Forum, the first space on your left.  

Right off the bat, you should notice a marble column rising just under 100 feet high: this is Trajan’s Column, in effect a 2,000 year old comic strip.

Built in 113 AD within the courtyard of the Ulpian Library, the most important library in all of Rome, this column serves as testimony to Emperor Trajan’s conquests, amongst which include the absolute destruction of the Dacian Empire, a major rival to Rome located in present-day Romania.  In doing so, Trajan and his men changed Rome profoundly for the better, reportedly claiming five million pounds of gold and ten million of silver.  

With 2,662 figures on display, including 58 instances of Trajan himself and scenes of women poisoning soldiers, Roman soldiers fighting with their foes’ decapitated heads in their mouths, and so much more, it is propaganda from an extremely dark time.  Given that the Dacians had no written language, it also provides us one of precious few surviving records of the Dacian People, 10,000 of whom Trajan brought back to fight as gladiators during 123 subsequent days of celebration.  And though they had captured 500,000 other Dacians, none were ever permitted to lay their eyes upon a column that effectively glorified them as a worthy adversary.  

Of course, Trajan himself would get his own slap in the face, as his own likeness which originally topped the column would be replaced in the 1500s by the current bronze statue of St. Peter.  That being said, I think Trajan’s legacy is more than sufficiently represented.  Let’s continue down the Via where you’ll see a huge brick building shaped in a semicircle.  

89 Foro Traiano \|||// We’re now at the northernmost point of the Via dei Fori Imperiali: the Street of the Imperial Forums, a modern avenue that cuts through the true sociopolitical heart of Ancient Rome and, by extension, that of the Ancient World.  Considering this, it’s impossible to summarize with the little time we have, but I’ll do my best: on the right side of the road, beneath the Baroque cupola of the Church of Saints Luca and Martina you’ll find the Foro Romano (the Forum). If you were to visit the archeological site for 16 euro (including entry to the Colosseum), you’d find the Belly Button of Rome here, a sacrificial pit where all new citizens were required to toss a fistful of the dirt of their homeland, as well as the Comitium, an outdoor space where the very first Senators would convene.  

On the right of the road are individual forums, or public meeting spaces.  Those here were often built ostensibly in homage to a certain deity by Emperors who wished to sway public opinion in their own favor.  Here, these emperors included Trajan, who we’ll discuss first, and Caesar, whose forum once featured his own likeness riding the horse of Alexander the Great, signaling the limitlessness of his power.  Additional forums include that of Augustus, as well as those of Nerva and Vespasian.  So that’s your primer.  For now, I’ll try to focus on some particularly cool details surrounding Trajan’s Forum, the first space on your left.  

Right off the bat, you should notice a marble column rising just under 100 feet high: this is Trajan’s Column, in effect a 2,000 year old comic strip.

Built in 113 AD within the courtyard of the Ulpian Library, the most important library in all of Rome, this column serves as testimony to Emperor Trajan’s conquests, amongst which include the absolute destruction of the Dacian Empire, a major rival to Rome located in present-day Romania.  In doing so, Trajan and his men changed Rome profoundly for the better, reportedly claiming five million pounds of gold and ten million of silver.  

With 2,662 figures on display, including 58 instances of Trajan himself and scenes of women poisoning soldiers, Roman soldiers fighting with their foes’ decapitated heads in their mouths, and so much more, it is propaganda from an extremely dark time.  Given that the Dacians had no written language, it also provides us one of precious few surviving records of the Dacian People, 10,000 of whom Trajan brought back to fight as gladiators during 123 subsequent days of celebration.  And though they had captured 500,000 other Dacians, none were ever permitted to lay their eyes upon a column that effectively glorified them as a worthy adversary.  

Of course, Trajan himself would get his own slap in the face, as his own likeness which originally topped the column would be replaced in the 1500s by the current bronze statue of St. Peter.  That being said, I think Trajan’s legacy is more than sufficiently represented.  Let’s continue down the Via where you’ll see a huge brick building shaped in a semicircle.  

11column.jpg

Trajan's Column

10ColumnScored.mp3

Hovering over the ruins of Trajan’s Forum is a complex known as Trajan’s Market.  This was in essence the world’s first shopping mall, with apartments, administrative offices, and, most importantly, a huge food court, including the Via Biberatica.  Derived from the word “to drink”, the Via Biberatica was where you could get your wine fix at a time when the most prized wines were imported from Greece, or even Pompeii.  

White wines were most popular in those days; their high alcoholic content and foul tastes were tempered or masked by the addition of seawater, or of honey and spices.  Higher quality wines could be aged up to 20 years; others were smoked in a room called a fumarium.  With the publishing of Cato the Elder’s De agri cultura, the first published work of Latin prose, landowners were instructed on how to grow a vineyard, and this increased wine production considerably.  Cato believed, as did the Greeks previously, that wine should be a necessity, not a luxury, and advised that even slaves be allotted five liters per week in order to function properly.  If someone ran on that as the central aspect of their presidential campaign, they’d have my vote.

Though with wine, this was merely a recommendation, the Romans were particular in that they did have an early form of food stamps, entitling the poor an allotment of grain imported from Sicily and Northern Africa.  In a city that counted as many as a million citizens at its peak, the amount of hungry bellies was overwhelming, a number that counted upwards of 200,000 under the reign of Augustus.  The Cura Annonae, as it was called, was viewed as a necessary gesture more than a benevolent one; though it consumed a fifth of the state’s budget, Augustus’ successor, Tiberius, noted that without it, “the utter ruin of the state [would] follow."

If all of this interests you, you might consider a stroll along the Via Biberatica, which can still be seen, albeit without its boozy vendors, with a visit to the Museum of the Imperial Forums housed in the market itself.  If not, you can still wave hello to the statues of several Emperors whose sites are represented here as we make our way to one last forum.

1 Foro Traiano \|||// Hovering over the ruins of Trajan’s Forum is a complex known as Trajan’s Market.  This was in essence the world’s first shopping mall, with apartments, administrative offices, and, most importantly, a huge food court, including the Via Biberatica.  Derived from the word “to drink”, the Via Biberatica was where you could get your wine fix at a time when the most prized wines were imported from Greece, or even Pompeii.  

White wines were most popular in those days; their high alcoholic content and foul tastes were tempered or masked by the addition of seawater, or of honey and spices.  Higher quality wines could be aged up to 20 years; others were smoked in a room called a fumarium.  With the publishing of Cato the Elder’s De agri cultura, the first published work of Latin prose, landowners were instructed on how to grow a vineyard, and this increased wine production considerably.  Cato believed, as did the Greeks previously, that wine should be a necessity, not a luxury, and advised that even slaves be allotted five liters per week in order to function properly.  If someone ran on that as the central aspect of their presidential campaign, they’d have my vote.

Though with wine, this was merely a recommendation, the Romans were particular in that they did have an early form of food stamps, entitling the poor an allotment of grain imported from Sicily and Northern Africa.  In a city that counted as many as a million citizens at its peak, the amount of hungry bellies was overwhelming, a number that counted upwards of 200,000 under the reign of Augustus.  The Cura Annonae, as it was called, was viewed as a necessary gesture more than a benevolent one; though it consumed a fifth of the state’s budget, Augustus’ successor, Tiberius, noted that without it, “the utter ruin of the state [would] follow."

If all of this interests you, you might consider a stroll along the Via Biberatica, which can still be seen, albeit without its boozy vendors, with a visit to the Museum of the Imperial Forums housed in the market itself.  If not, you can still wave hello to the statues of several Emperors whose sites are represented here as we make our way to one last forum.

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Trajan's Market

11MarketScored.mp3

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The seven pillars you see now, on your right, mark the Temple of the Peace, otherwise known as the Forum of Vespasian. It’s ironic, this first name, considering that it commemorated the destruction of Jerusalem at the hand of that Emperor and his eventual successor, Titus.  

Though the Emperors you just passed are copies of ancient statues, it seems worthwhile to note that they were actually reproduced and installed here by the fascists who, ever dreaming of a return to past glories, are responsible for building this imperial boulevard.

Unfortunately, in order to commemorate the 10th Anniversary of the March on Rome, when Mussolini and his men first forced themselves upon the city, they had to excavate in a hurry.  In view of this, there are only four statues of Emperors represented because Mussolini’s men failed to recognize that one of the forums likely belonged to Vespasian! As little as was known about the area back then, it also didn’t help that they destroyed 80% of the Forums they were theoretically trying to glorify.  

Thankfully, a huge marble map called the Forma Urbis Romae was made in the early 200s and hung on the wall of the Tempio della Pace.  Though the temple was destroyed during the sack of Rome in 410, and the map was then gradually disassembled, around 10% has been recovered, and has been hugely instrumental in making sense of how Rome might’ve looked in ancient times.   

Considering all that has transpired, then, it’s quite a miracle that we have what we have, and the more construction that is done, the more that is discovered.  Unfortunately, the last seventy-plus years of heavy traffic continue to put the site under great distress through smog and vibrational damage, but things are gradually changing.  As of 2013, private traffic has been banned from the road, and hopefully in time, if the Metro stop is ever completed, buses and taxis will be banned altogether.  

Let’s give a hello to the Colosseum, and then we’ll part ways at my favorite part of town.

 \|||// The seven pillars you see now, on your right, mark the Temple of the Peace, otherwise known as the Forum of Vespasian. It’s ironic, this first name, considering that it commemorated the destruction of Jerusalem at the hand of that Emperor and his eventual successor, Titus.  

Though the Emperors you just passed are copies of ancient statues, it seems worthwhile to note that they were actually reproduced and installed here by the fascists who, ever dreaming of a return to past glories, are responsible for building this imperial boulevard.

Unfortunately, in order to commemorate the 10th Anniversary of the March on Rome, when Mussolini and his men first forced themselves upon the city, they had to excavate in a hurry.  In view of this, there are only four statues of Emperors represented because Mussolini’s men failed to recognize that one of the forums likely belonged to Vespasian! As little as was known about the area back then, it also didn’t help that they destroyed 80% of the Forums they were theoretically trying to glorify.  

Thankfully, a huge marble map called the Forma Urbis Romae was made in the early 200s and hung on the wall of the Tempio della Pace.  Though the temple was destroyed during the sack of Rome in 410, and the map was then gradually disassembled, around 10% has been recovered, and has been hugely instrumental in making sense of how Rome might’ve looked in ancient times.   

Considering all that has transpired, then, it’s quite a miracle that we have what we have, and the more construction that is done, the more that is discovered.  Unfortunately, the last seventy-plus years of heavy traffic continue to put the site under great distress through smog and vibrational damage, but things are gradually changing.  As of 2013, private traffic has been banned from the road, and hopefully in time, if the Metro stop is ever completed, buses and taxis will be banned altogether.  

Let’s give a hello to the Colosseum, and then we’ll part ways at my favorite part of town.

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The Temple of the Peace

12paceScored.mp3

As much as it hurts to give any credit at all to Mussolini, it was once impossible to see the Colosseum from Trajan’s Column, and you’ve got to admit, it wasn’t such a bad view; even from here, it’s not so bad to see our old friend, the Vittoriano, looking down at us.  The issue is what was blocking it: 40,000 square meters of residences and medieval churches, resulting in the displacement of 5,000 humans!

But enough about the past: let’s face the present: you’re standing next to the friggin’ Colosseum, the largest free-standing amphitheater in the world.  Originally known simply as the amphitheatrum upon its completion in 80 AD, its name is believed to have been derived from a 100’  bronze statue of Emperor Nero, modeled after the Colossus of Rhodes, that once stood outside of Nero’s Domus Aurea, or Golden House, which can be found just up the hill.  That Domus Aurea, by the way, was the most lavish palace in Rome’s history, and its designs literally invented the visual style of the grotesque, which is my favorite of all the aesthetics.  It was recently opened to the public and I would recommend that you read up on its history, if not drop the 13 euro for a guided tour.

This site hosted much more than just gladiator battles, from death matches with exotic animals to military reenactments, including naval battles and bulls that could swim, but the overarching feature of all but few of these forms of entertainment involved violence of some kind.  Some things never change.

When it came to animals, the Colosseum required an extremely complex underground labyrinth called the hypogeum, where wild lions, leopards, and other beasts could be confined before the hunt.  At the inauguration of the space, Emperor Titus oversaw the sacrifice of 9,000 animals in the name of entertainment; as Trajan celebrated his defeat over the Dacians around 30 years later, 11,000 were killed.

The wooden floorboards of the Colosseum would’ve been constantly soaked through with blood.  Though there is little proof that innocent Christians were executed here, criminals were, and many were done so within a mythological setting, as with one man who was forced to dress up as Orpheus and play the lyre while a bear tore him apart, according to a report from the Smithsonian.  If event staff were to botch some level of service, they, too, might find themselves in the pit of death.  

Roman leadership viewed bloody entertainment as a necessary valve for a restless populace, to keep the underserved away from revolution, though not everyone considered these bloody events to be for the best.  In his Satires, the poet Juvenal even lumps the grain stipend in with such violence, and considers both the sign of a declining populace that would sell their soul for a quick fix, saying, “...the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses.”

It’s an incredibly relevant reflection on the progression, or regression, of an ancient culture, I think.  But perhaps the conflation of bread and bloodsport also says a lot about what we view as necessity?  It’s beside Juvenal’s point, but what if this lust for violence was as fundamental a human need as is that of bread?  What does that say about the ancients?  What does that say about humans in general?  

Oy.  Maybe it’s not worth thinking about, and we’re better off grabbing a cold drink somewhere.  I’m going to guide you away from the tourist madness and leave you in one of the historic pleasure districts of the city, OK?  Let’s head up the steps, toward the big yellow building on the hill; we’ll have to suffer through a busy boulevard as we look for the welcoming cupola of the 16th century Church of Santa Maria dei Monti.

58 Piazza del Colosseo \|||// As much as it hurts to give any credit at all to Mussolini, it was once impossible to see the Colosseum from Trajan’s Column, and you’ve got to admit, it wasn’t such a bad view; even from here, it’s not so bad to see our old friend, the Vittoriano, looking down at us.  The issue is what was blocking it: 40,000 square meters of residences and medieval churches, resulting in the displacement of 5,000 humans!

But enough about the past: let’s face the present: you’re standing next to the friggin’ Colosseum, the largest free-standing amphitheater in the world.  Originally known simply as the amphitheatrum upon its completion in 80 AD, its name is believed to have been derived from a 100’  bronze statue of Emperor Nero, modeled after the Colossus of Rhodes, that once stood outside of Nero’s Domus Aurea, or Golden House, which can be found just up the hill.  That Domus Aurea, by the way, was the most lavish palace in Rome’s history, and its designs literally invented the visual style of the grotesque, which is my favorite of all the aesthetics.  It was recently opened to the public and I would recommend that you read up on its history, if not drop the 13 euro for a guided tour.

This site hosted much more than just gladiator battles, from death matches with exotic animals to military reenactments, including naval battles and bulls that could swim, but the overarching feature of all but few of these forms of entertainment involved violence of some kind.  Some things never change.

When it came to animals, the Colosseum required an extremely complex underground labyrinth called the hypogeum, where wild lions, leopards, and other beasts could be confined before the hunt.  At the inauguration of the space, Emperor Titus oversaw the sacrifice of 9,000 animals in the name of entertainment; as Trajan celebrated his defeat over the Dacians around 30 years later, 11,000 were killed.

The wooden floorboards of the Colosseum would’ve been constantly soaked through with blood.  Though there is little proof that innocent Christians were executed here, criminals were, and many were done so within a mythological setting, as with one man who was forced to dress up as Orpheus and play the lyre while a bear tore him apart, according to a report from the Smithsonian.  If event staff were to botch some level of service, they, too, might find themselves in the pit of death.  

Roman leadership viewed bloody entertainment as a necessary valve for a restless populace, to keep the underserved away from revolution, though not everyone considered these bloody events to be for the best.  In his Satires, the poet Juvenal even lumps the grain stipend in with such violence, and considers both the sign of a declining populace that would sell their soul for a quick fix, saying, “...the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses.”

It’s an incredibly relevant reflection on the progression, or regression, of an ancient culture, I think.  But perhaps the conflation of bread and bloodsport also says a lot about what we view as necessity?  It’s beside Juvenal’s point, but what if this lust for violence was as fundamental a human need as is that of bread?  What does that say about the ancients?  What does that say about humans in general?  

Oy.  Maybe it’s not worth thinking about, and we’re better off grabbing a cold drink somewhere.  I’m going to guide you away from the tourist madness and leave you in one of the historic pleasure districts of the city, OK?  Let’s head up the steps, toward the big yellow building on the hill; we’ll have to suffer through a busy boulevard as we look for the welcoming cupola of the 16th century Church of Santa Maria dei Monti.

13colosseum.jpg

The Colosseum.

13ColosseumScored.mp3

13coloss.jpg

And now, we close out our walk in my favorite neighborhood in Rome, specifically at the Piazza Madonna dei Monti.  Once called the Suburra, this was always the poorest neighborhood in the city and was the place to go if you were looking for a sex worker.  The Suburra was so depraved, and so prone to fires, that a wall was built to separate it from the majesty of the Forum.  Or perhaps it was built in order to keep the Senators away from the prostitutes? 

Either way, you should have no trouble finding some legal fun here, particularly from the via degli Zingari (Street of the Gypsies) onward to the Via Urbana, as this area finds a great balance between weird, seedy art bars and elegant, trendy gastropubs, and super old school trattorias.  Either way, enjoy yourself, but in doing so, try not to hurt any living things, and do your best to leave the ruins undisturbed.  Considering the millennia of violent upheavals and power grabs, from the ancients to Mussolini to the government of the present-day, with influence and inspiration imported from all around the known universe, I would argue that it’s quite a miracle that Rome still stands in the shape it’s in.  Hoisting my imaginary glass of salty wine, I say: may she continue to grow and evolve, and may generations to have the honor of learning, as we have, from the glories and mistakes of the profoundly diverse group of humans who call themselves “Roman.”

41 Via della Madonna dei Monti \|||// And now, we close out our walk in my favorite neighborhood in Rome, specifically at the Piazza Madonna dei Monti.  Once called the Suburra, this was always the poorest neighborhood in the city and was the place to go if you were looking for a sex worker.  The Suburra was so depraved, and so prone to fires, that a wall was built to separate it from the majesty of the Forum.  Or perhaps it was built in order to keep the Senators away from the prostitutes? 

Either way, you should have no trouble finding some legal fun here, particularly from the via degli Zingari (Street of the Gypsies) onward to the Via Urbana, as this area finds a great balance between weird, seedy art bars and elegant, trendy gastropubs, and super old school trattorias.  Either way, enjoy yourself, but in doing so, try not to hurt any living things, and do your best to leave the ruins undisturbed.  Considering the millennia of violent upheavals and power grabs, from the ancients to Mussolini to the government of the present-day, with influence and inspiration imported from all around the known universe, I would argue that it’s quite a miracle that Rome still stands in the shape it’s in.  Hoisting my imaginary glass of salty wine, I say: may she continue to grow and evolve, and may generations to have the honor of learning, as we have, from the glories and mistakes of the profoundly diverse group of humans who call themselves “Roman.”

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