The Vineyard Olympics
You can read the second part here…
Part 3
Ancient Rome
How was wine made and drunk in Ancient Rome? Where were Rome’s most famous vineyards, why was Falernian considered one of the finest wines of the ancient world, and how did the Romans transport it over thousands of miles?
Rome did not invent wine, and in this field it learned much from the Greeks. But it was Rome that turned viticulture and the wine trade into a vast system spanning almost the entire world known to the Romans.
The Romans already understood that the quality of wine depended on place, soil, climate, grape variety and human skill. They distinguished between renowned wine-growing regions, valued particular vintages, aged their finest wines for years, and shipped amphorae of wine across the seas and lands of their empire.
At the Vineyard Olympics, Ancient Rome, therefore, has to prove not that it was the first to reveal great wine to humanity. It was not.
Its argument is far more audacious:
— The Greeks taught the world to understand wine. We showed the world how to produce it, store it, transport it, and sell it.
🏺 The Greek delegation returned to its section of the Colosseum. It had done everything it could: reminded the arena of the wines of Chios, Thasos and Samos, of symposia and kraters, of the sea that connected the islands with Athens—and, above all, of the fact that long before modern wine maps existed, people already knew that the place where grapes were grown mattered.
Chapter 1
Wine of Power and Empire
🏛️ Now it was Rome’s turn.
One of the senators rose from the Roman section. Behind him stood a light-coloured horse draped in a magnificent purple caparison. A slave held it by the reins.
Rome was ready to present its case before History. The amphorae already stood before the speaker, the map of the vineyards awaited its moment, and the presence of Incitatus served as a reminder: with this delegation, anything was possible
A sarcastic voice immediately rang out from the Greek section:
— And what is the horse doing here? Does he have something to do with Roman winemaking too?
— No, — the speaker replied calmly. — This is Incitatus. Emperor Caligula intended to make him consul. Over the past two thousand years, popular legend has managed to promote him to senator.
The Greeks immediately perked up.
— A horse makes government decisions in Rome? You have certainly come a long way from our democracy!
The Roman speaker ignored the jab. For a few moments, he silently looked across the arena towards the Greek section.
— We listened carefully to our historical teachers.
This time the Greeks greeted his words with obvious approval.
— At last these proud Romans have admitted the obvious!
The senator allowed them to savour their victory for another few moments.
— You taught us a great deal, — he continued. — Including viticulture. We admired you and criticised you at the same time, but we considered ourselves far more practical. We acknowledge your authority in philosophy, literature, art, education, medicine and winemaking. But a pupil does not have to remain one for life. And militarily, we conquered you
— But culturally, you remained dependent on us, — came a voice from the Greek delegation. — We can see among your delegation the great poet Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65–8 BC), who once said: “Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit” — “Captive Greece captured her savage conqueror.”
— Yes, you were magnificent thinkers and philosophers. But who was going to build the roads, construct aqueducts, organise armies and govern provinces thousands of miles from the heart of the empire? We had very different virtues—discipline, simplicity, a sense of duty, agriculture and military service, — the Roman senator replied.
Then he continued:
— You taught us to understand wine, to distinguish it by its origin, to talk about it, argue about it and celebrate it in poetry. For that, Rome is grateful to you.
The senator inclined his head slightly.
— But Rome faced a challenge that no wine-producing people before us had ever faced.
He swept his hand around the Colosseum, as though the entire empire lay beyond its walls.
— Think of our vast realm, stretching from Spain to Judaea, from North Africa to the Rhine and Britain. Cities, armies, ports, markets. Millions of people. All this forced us to take what you had taught us, scale it up and integrate it into the economy of a vast empire. We built an entirely new world for wine. We carried your work much further than you could ever have imagined!
The senator paused.
— The vines had to be grown. The wine had to be made, preserved, accounted for, loaded onto a ship or cart, carried hundreds—sometimes thousands—of miles from the vines on which the grapes had ripened, and sold.
Now the senator turned directly towards the Greeks.
— You gave wine a name.
He paused.
— We gave it roads.
From the Roman section came an approving drumming of hands against the benches.
But roads are not yet the beginning of our story. To understand exactly what Rome was sending along those roads, we must leave the Colosseum for a while and travel to Campania—to an ordinary vineyard.
👉 Campania is the fertile region south of Rome, around the Bay of Naples, Capua, Mount Vesuvius and the Tyrrhenian coast. In Roman times, it was one of the richest agricultural regions of Italy: a mild climate, abundant sunshine, relatively plentiful rainfall and exceptionally fertile soils, many of them volcanic. For wine, one of the most important areas was the ager Falernus—the Falernian district around Monte Massico, north of Naples. This was the home of the famous Falernum, which Roman writers ranked among the most prestigious wines of their time.
…Campania.
Autumn, 121 BC.
The sun was only beginning to rise above the slopes when the first people appeared among the rows of vines. There were no marble columns here, no legionaries in gleaming armour, no senators in white tunics.
There was simply the land and the vines. And there were people who already knew that two vines could grow very close to one another—and still produce different grapes.
In the distance rose the massif of Monte Massico. Here began the story of a wine whose name was known in Rome even to those who could never afford it.
Falernian.
In the early-morning air there was still a coolness that would vanish without a trace within a few hours. Harvesters carrying baskets could be seen among the vines. Here and there people talked and laughed, but most of the workers were silent: a long, hard day lay ahead.
The owner of the vineyard stood a little higher up the slope. He did not hurry the harvesters. For the past several days, in fact, he had spent much of his time watching and very little of it talking, regularly glancing at the sky. At the vine leaves. At the ripening grapes. At how quickly the morning dew disappeared. Several times a day he would pick a grape, crush it between his fingers, taste the juice and spit out the skin.
Twice already the estate manager had asked:
— Shall we begin?
Twice the owner had answered:
— Tomorrow.
And today, at last, he said:
— Begin.
None of the people standing there could have known that many generations later Romans would still remember the wine of this year. They would call it Opimian wine (vinum Opimianum), after Lucius Opimius, one of the consuls of 121 BC. Pliny the Elder, born almost a century and a half later, would still write with admiration about the wines of this extraordinary year. He reported that the wine had acquired the consistency of almost bitter honey and, by then, could scarcely be enjoyed on its own. It was used sparingly, blended with other wines. At some point, the value of old Opimian wine lay no longer simply in how good it was, but in the fact that it was that very wine—a wine that had outlived generations of people.
But for now, there was no “legendary vintage.” There were only grapes that had to be harvested quickly, and at the right moment.
The first basket was brought to the owner. He picked up a bunch, examined it carefully, plucked off several grapes and tasted them. One of the workers asked:
— Sweet? Then the wine will be good?
The owner looked at him.
— If good wine could be made from every sweet grape, there would be far more great vineyards in the world.
He crushed another grape between his fingers.
— Look up there.
The young man raised his head.
— What do you see?
— Vines.
— And down below?
— The same vines.
— Exactly.
The owner smiled.
— Except that the wine they produce is not quite the same.
For people of that time, this observation was no longer extraordinary. Roman viticulture was gradually accumulating knowledge that slope, soil, exposure to the sun and the way a vine was tended could all affect the result. Pliny would later distinguish between wines from different parts of the Falernian territory: some were associated with the upper slopes, others with the middle slopes, and still others with the lower ground. Faustian wine, from the middle slopes, enjoyed particular fame.
But all that still lay far in the future. In the autumn of 121 BC, no one walked between the rows of vines carrying a map of terroirs. No one drew boundaries on the land around future crus. No one could have known the French word climat, which would appear many centuries later.
People simply noticed. In one place, the grapes ripened earlier. Somewhere else, they remained more acidic. On one slope, the vines produced plenty of bunches, but the wine was ordinary. On another, the crop was smaller—yet the wine fetched a much higher price.
It was not yet a system. It was an accumulating memory.
— My father used to say the same thing, — the estate manager remarked.
— What exactly?
— That grapes from the upper plot should not be mixed with those from below—and that the reason lies in the land.
— And you don’t think so? — the owner asked. — If you know what matters most here:
Land. Sun. Water. Wind. The vine. People.
— then tell me, and I’ll stop coming here every morning to look at the grapes.
The manager laughed. He had no answer. And there would be no answer for a very long time.
The baskets gradually filled. The harvested grapes were carried away to where they would be crushed. As in Ancient Greece, part of the work was done by foot; the remaining mass could then be mechanically pressed to extract more juice. Such methods of processing grapes are well documented in Roman written and visual sources.
The young man who had earlier asked about the sweetness of the grapes appeared again. This time he was carrying a full basket.
— Where will this wine go?
— First, it isn’t going anywhere, — the manager replied. — First we have to make sure it actually becomes wine.
— And then?
— Maybe to Capua. Maybe to Rome.
— And after that?
The manager looked at him in surprise.
— Wherever a merchant is willing to pay for it, that’s where it will go.
The young man set down his basket.
— Even far away?
— Far away too, if he pays well enough.
The owner overheard the conversation.
— Remember one thing. The farther our wine travels, the more important it will be for the buyer to know where it came from.
This was the beginning of one of the most important changes in the history of wine. Wine was leaving its vineyard.
And its origin had to learn to travel with it
The pressed juice was transferred into large clay vessels—dolias. Here the wine began to ferment before continuing on its journey.
On the slopes of Mount Massico began the journey of Falernian wine. Harvesters filled their baskets with grapes, while mules carried the crop down the hillside—towards the roads and seas of the Roman Empire
👉 The Roman dolium was a close relative of the Greek pithos we have already encountered—an enormous clay vessel used for fermenting and storing wine, often partly buried in the ground. Wooden wine barrels, which many centuries later would become a familiar feature of European wine cellars, were not yet part of this world. Clay remained the principal material.
Time passed. The wine fermented. It was tasted. Some was kept for the estate. Some was sold nearby. And the best was prepared for a longer journey.
After a while, empty amphorae appeared in the courtyard. Now began the part of the story in which Rome felt particularly confident.
One of the amphorae stood beside the wall. An ordinary clay vessel with a narrow neck and two handles. For now, it was empty. But soon it would be filled with wine from the Falernian slopes. Marks and inscriptions would be added to help tell the buyer what it contained and where it had come from.
Then the amphora would leave the vineyard. At first, it would travel only a short distance along a local road. Then farther. Perhaps by cart, perhaps by ship. It would find itself among dozens, hundreds, and eventually thousands of other amphorae moving along the endless trade routes of the Republic.
The vineyard itself would remain exactly where it was. The slope, the sun, the soil and the vines on the slopes of Massico would remain with it. Early the next morning, the workers would once again walk between the rows. The owner would already be thinking about the next harvest.
We, however, will follow the wine…
The senator’s words to the Greek delegation in the Colosseum—“You gave wine a name. We gave it roads” — now cease to be merely a fine slogan and begin to acquire a very real meaning.
The first stage of the journey was a short one. The amphorae were loaded onto a cart, and its wheels rattled along a rough, stony track, far inferior to the Appian Way that ran through the same region of Campania.
The Romans were not the first to invent roads. They merely increased their length and improved their quality.
Nor did they invent the grapevine, the amphora or the wine trade.
But almost everything they inherited from other peoples, they knew how to turn into a well-functioning system.
The vineyard was left behind. Amphorae filled with Falernian wine travelled along Roman roads towards the ports of the Mediterranean—to places where Campania’s famous name was already known long before the wine itself arrived
A few days later, our amphora found itself among many other similar vessels. Some had arrived from neighbouring estates. Others had travelled much farther. Some contained wine, others olive oil or fish sauce. From the shape of a vessel, an experienced eye could already make an educated guess about where it had come from and what it contained. But shape alone was not enough.
Amphorae bore inscriptions and markings. These could provide information about their contents, origin, owner, merchant or other details concerning the journey of the goods.
To us, this may seem like a small thing. In the history of wine, it was anything but.
As long as someone drank wine right beside the vines, there was no need to explain its origin. You could simply point:
— From over there.
But now hundreds of miles might separate the vineyard from the person pouring that wine into cups at home. There was nowhere to point anymore.
The place had to be written down…
From there, the road might lead to the sea. A ship awaited the amphorae. Eventually it sailed from the harbour. The coast of Campania slowly disappeared from view. Now the Falernian wine had finally left the place of its birth.
Roman merchant ships turned the Mediterranean into a vast transportation network. Along its sea routes travelled thousands of amphorae filled with Italian wines—from the celebrated Falernian to ordinary wines destined for distant markets across the Empire
It crossed the seas and safely reached Massalia on the coast of Gaul—modern Marseille, a city founded by the Greeks. Several amphorae from the newly arrived ship were set aside. A local merchant approached them.
In the port of Massalia, amphorae filled with Falernian wine came ashore. Hundreds of kilometres from the vineyards of Campania, its name was already familiar to merchants and buyers—the reputation of the place travelled across the Empire together with its wine
— Where from?
The man accompanying the cargo named Campania.
The merchant looked more closely.
— Falernian?
— Falernian.
That was enough for the conversation to turn immediately to price. The name already told the merchant a great deal about the wine. Its reputation was now travelling independently of the vineyard itself. And a good reputation had to be paid for.
A particular vineyard first becomes famous in a place where it cannot be seen
The merchant examined the amphora once more.
— Was it a good year?
The man accompanying the cargo shrugged.
— It seems to have been a very good one.
That was all he could say. Neither of them yet knew that the harvest of 121 BC would outlive them both in human memory. If the amphora carried the fame of the Falernian vineyards across space, the Opimian vintage carried it through time.
A place can be great. But so can a particular year—a year that becomes part of a wine’s reputation
Back in the Colosseum, the old senator turned towards the Greeks:
— You called the wine of Chios great. But what year was it from?
And for the first time, the Greeks began to shift uneasily on their marble benches.
Thus began to emerge a distant ancestor of the concept of vintage.
But for now, what stood before the merchant was simply an amphora of good Falernian wine. He named his price. The seller shook his head and named another.
Now began the part of the history of wine that no poetry could replace:
Trade.
In the end, the amphora remained in Massalia. Perhaps it would soon be opened in the home of a wealthy citizen. Perhaps some of the wine would be served at a feast. Someone would taste it and decide that Falernian deserved its reputation. Someone else might shrug in puzzlement and prefer a familiar Greek wine.
The modern wine label, bearing the name of a vineyard and the year of the harvest, was still centuries away. But two of its most important coordinates were already beginning to take shape.
🗺️ The Wine Map of Rome
The story of our amphora might have created the misleading impression that Rome had only one great vineyard—on the slopes of Massico—while the rest of the vast Republic simply waited for the famous Falernian wine to arrive from there.
That was far from the truth.
The Roman senator speaking in the Colosseum unrolled a wine map of the Republic before the spectators.
— You already know about Falernian, — he said. — Now shall we see what the neighbours are growing?
► Caecubum—Falernian’s Rival
Its home was in southern Latium, near the coast and Fundi. During the late Republic, Caecuban wine enjoyed such a reputation that it would be premature to rank Falernian unquestionably above it. Pliny the Elder would later remember Caecuban as a wine that had once held first place among the celebrated wines of Rome.
But his account also reminds us that a vineyard can become great—and can lose its greatness surprisingly quickly. Alterations to the landscape, the digging of canals and other human activity damaged the old vineyards of the Caecuban area. By Pliny’s time, much of their former glory already belonged to the past.
► Setinum — The Wine of Augustus
A little farther north lay Setia, modern Sezze. Its hills produced the famous Setine wine. And it had a spokesman modern winemakers could only dream of:
Emperor Augustus.
According to Pliny, Augustus preferred Setine to other wines. The reason may have been quite prosaic: it apparently suited his health better. But when it comes to a wine’s reputation, the motives of a famous consumer matter rather less. If a particular wine regularly appears at the emperor’s table, everyone soon hears about it. Here, it is no longer only the soil that works for the vineyard.
It also has the name of a famous man raising a filled cup.
Two thousand years will pass, and this mechanism will have changed remarkably little
► Albanum—Almost at the Gates of Rome
We do not have to travel far to encounter the next famous wine. Alban wine was produced in the Alban Hills, southeast of Rome. Here the vines grew on soils shaped by ancient volcanic activity. The wine was highly regarded and regularly appeared in Roman lists of fine wines. Some varieties were aged for years.
It was a good answer to anyone who thought that great wine necessarily had to come from far away. Sometimes it was produced almost within sight of the capital.
► Surrentinum—Wine by the Sea
Now we return to Campania, but travel farther south. On the peninsula around modern Sorrento, Surrentine wine was produced. Its reputation was an interesting one. Roman writers could disagree considerably in their assessments of it. Pliny even preserved the opinion of Emperor Tiberius, who regarded it with little enthusiasm. Yet Surrentine continued to rank among the well-known wines of Rome.
It reminds us of something modern wine lovers sometimes forget:
the ancients did not all share the same taste either
A famous wine did not necessarily appeal to everyone. Not even to an emperor.
(He was human too!)
► Massicum—The Famous Wine’s Neighbour
And finally, right beside the Falernian territory we already know, there was another celebrated name—Massic wine. It came from the area around Monte Massico and was regularly ranked among the most prestigious wines of Italy.
To be continued…
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