[Prehistory – 753 BCE] Prehistory and Ancient Peoples

We begin our journey in a time before Rome, before emperors and legions, before the very name “Italy” existed. We are in the long, deep twilight of prehistory, stretching back to a time when the peninsula we know was a colder, wilder, and more formidable land. Imagine a landscape emerging from the grip of the last Ice Age. Glaciers, vast sheets of grinding ice, are in retreat, carving out the great Alpine valleys to the north. The plains below are not yet fertile farmland, but marshy expanses and dense forests roamed by creatures that now live only in our legends: giant deer with sprawling antlers, lumbering cave bears, and elephants with immense, gleaming tusks. Into this world, a world of deep silence broken only by the wind and the call of beasts, walked the first humans. These were not our direct ancestors, but our cousins: the Neanderthals. For over 100,000 years, they were the masters of this land. They were powerfully built, adapted to the cold, and lived in small, nomadic bands. Their world was one of stone and bone, a daily struggle for survival. We find their faint traces in caves along the coasts and in the Apennine mountains—chipped flint tools, the gnawed bones of their prey. In a karst cave system near Altamura, a stunning discovery was made: the complete skeleton of a man who fell into a sinkhole some 150,000 years ago. He is Altamura Man, his bones fused with the cave’s calcite formations, a silent, lonely sentinel of this lost age. Around 45,000 years ago, a new people arrived. *Homo sapiens*. Our people. For a time, they shared the peninsula with the Neanderthals, two distinct human cultures gazing at each other across a valley, their futures utterly unknown. We can only speculate on their interactions—were they hostile, curious, or indifferent? What we know for certain is that within a few millennia, the Neanderthals vanished, leaving our ancestors to inherit the land alone. These early modern humans were hunter-gatherers, but they possessed a spark of something new. In caves from Sicily to the Alps, they left behind more than just tools. They left art. Etchings of bison and horses, mysterious geometric symbols, and the haunting outlines of their own hands stenciled onto rock walls—the first signatures of human consciousness on this soil. The world continued to warm. The great beasts died out, and the forests changed. Around 6,000 BCE, a revolution began, not with a clash of armies, but with a seed. This was the Neolithic Revolution. Ideas and people, trickling in from the East by sea and by land, brought with them a radical new way of life: agriculture. The shift was monumental. It meant trading the uncertain freedom of the hunt for the demanding toil of the field. A new sound echoed through the forests—the sharp crack of a polished stone axe, felling trees with an efficiency their ancestors could only dream of. In their hands, clay, once just mud, was shaped and fired in smoky pits, becoming hard, waterproof vessels that could hold water, grain, and the secrets of a settled life. They built the first permanent villages, clusters of wattle-and-daub huts, their communities bound together by the rhythm of the seasons, the planting, and the harvest. Life became more secure, but also more complex. For the first time, people could accumulate surplus, which meant they could accumulate wealth. The seeds of social hierarchy were sown. Then, about 5,300 years ago, high in the Alps on the modern border with Austria, a man was murdered. He fell, an arrowhead lodged in his back, and the ice became his tomb. His discovery in 1991 was an electrifying window into this lost world. We call him Ötzi the Iceman. He wasn't a king or a general, but a snapshot of a man on the cusp of a new age. And the most revolutionary thing about him was the axe he carried. Its blade was not stone, but pure, gleaming copper. The Age of Metals had begun. The ability to smelt ore—to take a rock, subject it to intense fire, and pour out a molten metal—was a form of magic. Copper was soft, but it was a start. It was a status symbol, a sign of power. Ötzi’s axe was a treasure. His body tells its own story: of the 61 charcoal tattoos etched into his skin, possibly to treat the arthritis in his joints; of the deerskin coat and grass-woven cloak that shielded him from the cold; of his last meal of ibex meat and einkorn wheat. He was a real person, living and dying in a world that was rapidly changing. The real transformation came with bronze. Around 2,300 BCE, artisans discovered that by mixing copper with a small amount of tin, they could create an alloy that was harder, stronger, and more versatile than anything that came before. But there was a catch. Tin was rare in Italy. To make bronze, you had to trade. Suddenly, the peninsula was no longer an isolated backwater. It was part of a bustling Mediterranean network. Ships laden with metals and goods sailed the coastlines, connecting communities in a web of commerce and conflict. In the lush Po Valley, a curious new form of settlement arose. These were not scattered huts, but planned communities, dense villages built on wooden stilts and surrounded by earthen ramparts and water-filled moats. The Terramare culture had created fortified islands on the plains, their orderly streets and houses a testament to a highly organized, communal society. In the mountains, the Apennine culture thrived, a more pastoral people whose wealth was in their herds, moving their sheep and cattle across the rugged spine of Italy. They were different peoples, with different traditions, sharing the same land. As the centuries wore on, a sinister quiet fell over the Terramare villages. Around 1,200 BCE, they were abandoned, their moats filled in, their people dispersed. Why? Was it climate change? Disease? War? This period, known as the Late Bronze Age collapse, shook the entire Mediterranean world. It was an age of disruption, migration, and violence. Out of this chaos, a new power emerged. Iron. Around 900 BCE, the knowledge of iron-working spread across the peninsula. Iron was a democratic metal. Unlike the rare components of bronze, iron ore was abundant. Now, a strong weapon or a durable plough was within reach of many more people. This technological leap fueled a population boom and gave rise to a powerful new culture that dominated central and northern Italy: the Villanovans. We know them primarily through their dead. The Villanovans practiced cremation, placing the ashes of their loved ones in distinctive clay urns, biconical in shape, often with a bowl for a lid, or for a warrior, a stunningly crafted bronze helmet. Their settlements were large proto-cities, perched on defensible hilltops that would one day become great Etruscan and Roman centers. They were farmers, traders, and fierce warriors, their society led by a wealthy chieftain class. Their metalwork was exquisite, their pottery widespread. They were organized, dynamic, and expanding. As we approach our final year, 754 BCE, the peninsula is a mosaic of peoples. In the north, the Villanovans are forging a new society from iron and fire. In the south, Greek ships are beginning to probe the coastlines, establishing the first colonies. And in the hills of Latium, among the small Villanovan-influenced villages of shepherds and farmers, a new story is about to begin. The people here are called Latins. The land is simmering, a crucible of cultures on the verge of creating something the world has never seen. The stage is set. The actors are in place. And on a small cluster of hills overlooking the Tiber River, the first act of Rome is about to unfold.