On This Day·Ancient Rome·Republican and Imperial Rome
On This Day: Ludi Apollinares Continue
July 7: Rome’s circus is still roaring—today, the Ludi Apollinares games for Apollo light up the city for a second day.
Day two of Apollo’s games
Since 212 BCE, Rome set aside a string of hot July days for Ludi Apollinares—a festival of racing, games, and prayers for Apollo’s favor. By July 7, the city was buzzing with crowds, chanting, and the rumble of hooves in the Circus Maximus.
Why Apollo, and why now?
The festival began in crisis—Rome prayed to Apollo as Hannibal threatened from the south. Over centuries, the games grew: not just chariots, but theatrical performances, wild beasts, and feasts. Sacrifices burned bright at Apollo’s temple on the Palatine Hill.
When the city runs on spectacle
For Romans, the calendar wasn’t just business. It was rhythm, release, and ritual. These festivals stitched the city together, blending urgent hope for divine protection with the pure rush of spectacle.
For nearly a week, Romans lost themselves in Apollo’s honor—chariots raced, actors screamed, and temples smoked with sacrifice.
Story·Ancient Rome·Early Imperial Rome
Julia, Daughter of Augustus, Cast Out
Rome’s golden princess was banished to a barren island—her crime was pleasure, not politics.
From palaces to prison.
Julia was Augustus’s only child, the symbol of future Rome. She glittered at the center of every festival, trailed by admirers and poets. But rumors churned—secret lovers, late-night parties, too much laughter for a daughter of Caesar.
Law bends, then snaps.
Augustus had pushed strict new laws: no adultery, family honor above all. When Julia’s scandals became public, her father didn’t just frown—he exiled her to a desolate island, with no wine, no men, and almost no visitors. The message stung more than the sentence: no one, not even family, was safe from the emperor’s virtue.
Exile echoes louder than death.
Julia survived, barely, as Rome hissed and whispered. The city that adored a princess learned to fear a father’s wrath. Power forgets nothing, and mercy rarely ran in imperial blood.
Julia, daughter of Augustus, was adored by the people and envied by the Senate. But when her father’s moral laws turned on his own family, exile followed. Rome learned that even blood could not shield you from the emperor’s new world.
Quote·Ancient Rome·Imperial Rome
Epictetus on Insults
"If anyone tells you that someone speaks ill of you, do not make excuses, but answer: ‘He does not know my other faults, else he would not have mentioned only these.’" Epictetus swings a sharp sword against pride.
His retort in Greek, then and now.
Epictetus, in the Enchiridion (33.8), writes: «Εἰπεῖτα εἴ τις σοι εἴπῃ ὅτι ἄλλος σε κακῶς λέγει, μὴ ἀπολογοῦ, ἀλλὰ ἔλεγε ὅτι ‘ὠφελέστερον τοῦτο, ὅτι οὐκ ᾔδει τἄλλα μου ἐλαττώματα, εἰ μὴ ταῦτα μόνον εἶπεν.’» — "If anyone tells you that someone speaks ill of you, do not make excuses, but answer: ‘He does not know my other faults, else he would not have mentioned only these.’" This is not self-deprecation—it’s deflection by indifference.
Why Epictetus laughed at insults.
For Epictetus, taking offense wastes energy you could spend reigning over yourself. He taught that what others say is outside your control—so let it bounce. Laugh at your own flaws before the world can hurt you. For a man who survived slavery, this tactic wasn’t weakness. It was armor, light as air.
The man who taught emperors from a wooden leg.
Epictetus walked with a limp, likely from a broken leg during slavery. He taught exiles, senators, and even a future emperor in a bare room, not a marble hall. He believed freedom and dignity live in how you answer abuse, not what you own. In a culture obsessed with status, he flipped the script—still useful every time a critic comes for you online.
Epictetus, once a slave, saw insults as trivial compared to self-mastery. His humor slices deeper than outrage—and it’s disarming even 2,000 years later.
Fact·Ancient Greece·Classical Greece
Mixed Company at Greek Symposiums
At the height of an Athenian drinking party, courtesans and their lovers reclined elbow-to-elbow—while wives were nowhere in sight.
No Wives Allowed: Greek Drinking Parties
Step into a smoky Athenian dining room at midnight—every man is stretched on a couch, cup in hand. There's laughter, singing, sometimes arguments about poetry or politics. But no wives. Never wives.
Courtesans, Flutes, and Fluid Rules
The only women present? Hired entertainers. Courtesans, flute-girls, and dancers drift between the couches, pouring wine and more. Athenians drew a hard line: their own wives must stay pure, at home, while men flaunted freedom behind closed doors.
The Greek symposium was a wild mix of philosophy, music, and sex—but always strictly male company, except for hired entertainers and prostitutes. Respectable women stayed home. The lines between social class and sexual access ran straight down the couches.
Myth Buster·Ancient Rome·Imperial Rome
Did Every Roman Feast Recline?
Imagine every Roman banquet: silk-robed guests sprawled elegantly on couches, nibbling grapes. That's the Hollywood feast scene.
The reclining Roman dinner party myth
Film after film shows Romans lounging sideways on couches, goblets in hand, at every meal. Reclining to eat is the default—aristocrat or artisan, man or woman, all sprawled out in marble dining rooms. It’s a scene etched into pop culture.
Most Romans sat in chairs—if they had one
The reality was more rigid and less glamorous. Most Romans, especially non-elites and women, dined seated upright. True reclining was reserved for banquets among wealthy men. Children, lower-class citizens, and many women ate sitting, not sprawling. Archaeological finds show dining spaces packed with simple benches and stools.
Who got to recline?
Reclining at the triclinium marked your status. Elite men flaunted it; women sometimes joined, but always under strict social rules. For most Romans, dinner meant sitting up, sharing with family—or on your feet, bolting bread between chores.
Reclining to dine was mostly an elite, male practice—most Romans sat upright, and women (outside certain settings) stayed seated. The real feast was less glamour, more family dinner.
Character·Ancient Rome·Late Republic (c. 115–57 BCE)
Lucullus: Feasts After Victory
Peacocks roast on silver platters. Lucullus, Rome’s most flamboyant general, hosts a dinner so lavish his own cooks protest.
Banquets That Shocked a Republic
Peacocks roast on silver platters. Lucullus, Rome’s most flamboyant general, hosts a dinner so lavish his own cooks protest. Guests lose count of the dishes—each more exotic than the last.
From General to Gourmet
After armies and conquests, Lucullus brought Asia’s luxuries to Rome—gardens, libraries, and recipes. He spent fortunes on his estates, even digging through mountains to direct fresh water for his fishponds. Old-fashioned Romans muttered that he’d gone soft, but his table became the center of a new kind of influence.
A Feast That Outlasts Its Host
The word 'Lucullan' still means over-the-top luxury. Centuries later, people remember his banquets more than his battles—a general who found immortality at the dinner table.
After conquering the east, Lucullus brought the spoils home—armies of slaves, libraries of Greek texts, and a taste for food Rome had never seen. He spent more time planning gardens than campaigns, scandalizing peers with his banquets. In a city built on austerity, Lucullus showed that appetite could be its own kind of power.
