The Romans: A 2,000-Year History

by Edward J. Watts

An acclaimed scholar tells the full, breathtaking history of Rome, from its emergence in the Iron Age to the capture of Constantinople in the thirteenth century

“A sweeping historical survey that spans two millennia…Those intrigued by the ebb and flow of political power…will find in this book a cornucopia."—Wall Street Journal

When we think of “ancient Romans” today, many picture the toga-clad figures of Cicero and Caesar, presiding over a republic, and then an empire, before seeing their world collapse at the hands of barbarians in the fifth century AD. 
 
The Romans does away with this narrow vision by offering the first comprehensive account of ancient Rome over the course of two millennia. Prize-winning historian Edward J. Watts recounts the full sweep of Rome’s epic the Punic Wars, the fall of the republic, the coming of Christianity, Alaric’s sack of Rome, the rise of Islam, the Battle of Manzikert, and the onslaught of the Crusaders who would bring about the empire’s end. Watts shows that the source of Rome’s enduring strength was the diverse range of people who all called themselves Romans. This is the Rome of Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, and Constantine, but also Charlemagne, Justinian, and Manuel Comnenus—and countless other men and women who together made it the most resilient state the world has ever seen.  
 
An expansive, eye-opening portrait, The Romans is the definitive history of Rome and its citizens.

Genres: History, Nonfiction, Ancient History, Politics, Medieval History, Roman History

878 pages, Kindle Edition

First published October 7, 2025

About the author

Edward Watts teaches history at the University of California, San Diego, He received his PhD in History from Yale University in 2002. His research interests center on the intellectual and religious history of the Roman Empire and the early Byzantine Empire.

Reviews

['Aussie Rick' · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have just finished reading the Kindle edition of "The Romans: A 2,000-Year History" by Edward J. Watts, which was graciously provided by NetGalley. I was a bit dubious that anyone could effectively cover such a large period of Roman history is just over 700 pages, but I was pleasantly surprised.

This may not be an in-depth history of the Roman Empire, but it is an engaging and interesting overview of the Romans from the founding of Rome by the legendary twin brothers Romulus and Remus to the fall of Constantinople to the Crusading Franks in 1204.

The author covers all the significant events, battles, campaigns and characters that led to the formation of the Roman Empire as we know it, and also those issues and events that led to its fall, both in Rome and later Constantinople. 

This is an excellent primer for those who want to get a decent summary of the Roman Empire with the author using numerous primary and secondary sources to tell the story. This allows the reader to follow on with more comprehensive reading on any particular subject that may take their fancy.

I really enjoyed that the author covered both the Roman and Byzantine empires and although I would have loved more detail on the various military campaigns undertaken by the Roman Empire there was enough to satisfy my interest.

This was an easy-to-read book that held my interest from beginning to end and I would have no hesitation in recommending this book to anyone who has a passing interest in the Romans.

[Larry (LPosse1) · Rating 5 out of 5]

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️½ — Review of The Romans: A 2,000-Year History by Edward Watts

My goodness—this book is a 900-page monster! Edward Watts takes on the impossible task of telling the entire story of Ancient Rome in one volume… and somehow pulls it off. From the early monarchy to the republic, the rise of the empire, the late imperial centuries, all the way to the Byzantine world and the final fall of Constantinople, it’s all here. If you want the whole sweep of Roman history under one roof, this is the book.

One of this book’s best features is how well it works as a reference. Have a question about Ancient Rome? Flip to the table of contents or the index and you’ll find what you need. It’s the kind of book you read once, and then keep within reach because you’ll be dipping back into it again and again.

Of course, with any “all-in-one” volume, not everything gets the attention everyone hopes for. Some readers have grumbled about how little Roman Britain receives—Where’s Hadrian’s Wall?—but honestly, I thought Watts handled the balance well. He gives you the military and political highlights, but he also goes out of his way to emphasize the adaptability and innovation that let Rome survive (in one form or another) for two entire millennia. That theme alone makes the book worth reading.

My only complaint is that once we move fully into the Byzantine period, the names, dynasties, and shifting politics get so dense that I had trouble keeping it all straight. But that might be more of a “me problem” than a “Watts problem”—Byzantine history is notoriously complex.

All told, this is a wonderful and ambitious work. If you want to understand Roman identity across two thousand years—how the idea of “Roman” evolved, endured, and reinvented itself—this is a must-read. A massive book, yes, but a massively rewarding one.

[Balazs · Rating 4 out of 5]

A narrative survey, with relatively little analysis (the lack of insightful and deep analysis, compared even to the types of Mommsen & Kaldellis' m works are its biggest flaw). It is a major scholarly accomplishment, despite its problems. The survey is surprisingly well balanced (Watts has his speciality in Late Antiquity), the quality between early Rome and the Komnenian period being pretty even. The prose is readable & conveys the information it intends.

There were some interesting takes (early Roman history, including the last four kings, the framing of the Late Republic, viewing Domitians' reign in a surprisingly positive llight, seeing the post-395 collapse as essentially a consequence of leadership failures, etc.) & even some thought-provoking ones (like ending the book at 1204, regarding it as the end of Roman history). Still, one is left with a sense of want. With that much space, or even an increase to 1000+ pages, a crisp writing style could have conveyed deeper analysis, and brought forth a much richer picture of the incredible social, economic, political, cultural & military lives of the Romans' worlds. I am awaiting a 2nd edition for the book for that.

[Andrea · Rating 4 out of 5]

Clear, understandable and also makes the history of Rome and its oligarchs relevant to modern times. It was a slow read for me but worth it.

[Ruben · Rating 3 out of 5]

At the start of The Romans, Edward Watts promises an answer to a fascinating question 'Why did the Roman Empire survive for so long?'

I therefore expected an analysis of the institutions, the checks and balances, inclusive policies, the role of Emperor, as well as tactical and military innovations.

Unfortunately, what we get is 2000 years of history crammed into 700 pages and an interminable series of mini-biographies.

The start is promising as it looks at the first settlements and the search for a functional governance model, but after the fall of the Republic the book can't keep pace with the increasing chaos of dozens and dozens of emperors.

As a reader you crave context and analysis. The most basic 'why' questions are not answered because there is no space. Why did the Republic never make a comeback? Why couldn't Rome defend its borders anymore? How centralized were monetary and taxation policies?

So, Watts's criticism at the start of the book that scholars only focus on part of the history (early Rome, the Eastern Roman Empire) may well be justified but I am not sure the book delivers the theoretical added value the bird's eye view could bring.

I am by no means a specialist on the Roman Empire, I read 2-3 books per year about it and one of my absolute favorites is Watts's Mortal Republic which examines the root causes of the fall of the Republic. He is clearly a brilliant scholar and has the knowledge, breadth and the pen to convey it.

I had hoped for something similar to Mortal Republic, but ultimately this is mostly a chronological account.

That being said, the book does highlight many interesting characters for future reading (I noted down Diocletian, Belisarius and Justinian, Sofia, Alexis Comnenus and the Gracchus brothers).

3,5

[Daniel · Rating 5 out of 5]

As someone who has read a lot of Roman history, this is the quintessential gateway for someone who is interested but intimated by the sheer breadth of content available. It will give the reader an idea of periods or topics they want to study more in depth. It’s well paced and interesting throughout. I thought the omissions of Hadrian’s Wall and the Varangian Guard/Harald Hardrada were pretty glaring but overall it does the job of covering one of the most studied and discussed empires in history.

[Mergulum · Rating 5 out of 5]

The epic story of the Roman state from its inception in eighth century BC to the fall of Constantinople in the early 13th century. My familiarity is principally with the republic and empire up to the fourth century and it is apparent that the author has covered the “greatest hits” from that period and my assumption is that the same will apply to the later empire. As that phase of the history is largely new to me I must confess that I did get a little confused over which emperor was doing terrible things to which members of his family. Especially as so many are named Constantine or something similar. But I suspect that a reread will clarify the narrative and certainly this is a book and a story that warrants many rereading in the future.

Thanks to NetGalley and Basic Books for this review copy

[Preetam Chatterjee · Rating 5 out of 5]

There is a peculiar kind of silence that hums through Roman history—the silence of endurance. Not the stillness of death, but the low, resonant pause before a civilization decides to reinvent itself.

When Edward J. Watts begins his sweeping chronicl, he tunes directly into that frequency: Rome not as an empire that perished, but as an idea that molted its skin, century after century, refusing to die. Reading him feels like watching a candle gutter and reignite through every age—from the blood-slick stones of the Forum to the fluorescent corridors of the Vatican—each flare insisting that Rome is less a place than a pulse.

Watts opens, appropriately, with myth. Romulus and Remus are not so much people here as founding metaphors: violence and nurture intertwined, a wolf’s milk turning to empire. However, he’s quick to remind us that history began when Romans started writing themselves into being.

That act—the textualization of identity—haunts the book. In his hands, two millennia of politics, theology, and ambition become a single, unbroken script, written by countless hands but always in the same ink of self-belief.

What distinguishes Watts from the usual tellers of the “Rise and Fall” saga is his refusal to accept decline as destiny. For him, the Republic’s collapse was not the end but an evolutionary pivot; the Byzantine metamorphosis was not a footnote but a continuation. Even the Renaissance humanists, excavating Latin ruins to craft new worlds, were, in his phrasing, “Romans of the mind.” His thesis hums with defiance: Rome didn’t fall. It migrated. It downloaded itself into each succeeding age like software too vital to delete.

That conceptual audacity gives the book its tensile strength. Watts does not just chronicle emperors and wars; he maps how Romans thought about themselves—how a people addicted to continuity managed to rebrand across epochs. The chapters glide between eras with cinematic ease: one moment we’re amid the Senate’s thunder, the next among monks in Constantinople or bureaucrats in early modern papal courts. The transitions are seamless, as if time itself were a single marble slab polished by interpretation.

Watts’ prose walks the fine line between academic precision and narrative grace. He refuses the overwrought grandeur of Gibbon or the cinematic hyperbole of modern popular histories. Instead, he writes like a scholar who knows the archives but can still taste the dust of the Forum. Every century in his account seems to whisper: “we survived by changing.” That whisper becomes the moral refrain of the text.

What is striking is how he handles the Republic. Where others see moral decay and inevitable tyranny, Watts sees an experiment in adaptability. The Roman constitution was elastic, stretched by ambition but never entirely snapped until Caesar’s assassination rewrote its grammar. Even then, Watts reads Augustus not as an imperial usurper but as the shrewdest curator of republican illusion—proof that Rome’s genius lay in turning crisis into continuity.

The same interpretive generosity extends to the later Empire. When Diocletian divides Rome into East and West, Watts calls it “an act of administrative salvation.” When Constantine weds politics to Christianity, the book notes less the corruption of the old order than the invention of a new idiom for power. Watts’ Rome is protean, and its ability to survive comes from its moral bilingualism. Pagan and Christian, imperial and bureaucratic, it keeps rewriting its story in the grammar of necessity.

He devotes an almost tender attention to Byzantium—the empire Western historians once dismissed as decadent or derivative. Watts restores its vitality, showing how Greek intellectualism and Roman administration merged into something startlingly modern: a state obsessed with paperwork, diplomacy, and the slow weaponry of culture. You sense his admiration for their stubborn practicality, their refusal to let theology drown governance. Byzantium, for him, is Rome in its most introspective mood—an empire ruled by clerks who still dreamt of legions.

Where Watts truly surprises is in how his Rome speaks to us now. Reading him in our age of algorithmic empires and populist caesars, you feel the eerie recurrence of pattern. The late Republic’s polarization—elites hoarding wealth, demagogues weaponizing rhetoric—feels like a premonition. His portrayal of Augustus’ PR mastery reads like a manual for the digital age: control the narrative, curate the myth, rename peace as victory.

Watts never moralizes, but his historical gaze slices with quiet precision. He draws attention to how Rome’s citizens were perpetually promised restoration—a return to an imagined golden age that never existed. Every populist from Marius to Mussolini has repackaged that nostalgia. Watts doesn’t belabour the analogy, yet every page vibrates with it. When he writes that “Romans believed decline could be reversed by reviving ancient virtue,” you can almost hear modern campaign slogans echoing through the Colosseum’s ghosts.

He is especially compelling when he follows Rome’s intellectual DNA into Christianity. The Church, he shows, inherited not just Rome’s roads and laws but its institutional metabolism: the urge to centralize, codify, and canonize. Papal Rome becomes the afterlife of imperial Rome; the crucifix replaces the eagle, but the administrative spine remains. Watts’ chapters on the papal reforms and the early Renaissance are masterpieces of historical layering—showing how theology absorbed bureaucracy, and vice versa. By the time we reach the modern Vatican, the continuity feels almost biological. Rome survives because Rome knows how to mutate.

Watts’ scholarship is understated but rigorous. He builds his narrative not on grand theory but on accreted detail: letters, decrees, architectural fragments. The result feels less like reading history and more like excavating it. He cites sources with a storyteller’s instinct, weaving Livy, Procopius, and Petrarch into an unbroken dialogue. His footnotes are like whispers from a chorus of ghosts—informing, never interrupting.

The structure itself mirrors his argument. Each era flows into the next with deliberate permeability, refusing the artificial divides of textbook history. He treats time like a palimpsest: every empire overwrites the previous one but never erases it completely. The result is a historiographical method that feels distinctly postmodern—aware of narrative construction, skeptical of teleology, yet anchored in the materiality of evidence.

Watts’ restraint is his brilliance. He avoids both nostalgia and cynicism. There’s affection in his tone, but it’s the affection of a historian who knows that civilization is a cycle of exhaustion and renewal. When he writes about Rome’s eventual fragmentation, he refuses melodrama: “An empire’s end is never a moment but a gradient.” That sentence alone could summarize every empire, including the invisible ones we inhabit now—digital, financial, algorithmic.

Somewhere halfway through, reading Watts becomes less about the past and more about recognition. The Roman obsession with order, spectacle, and self-narration is ours. The Senate’s debates echo in our parliaments; their propaganda lives in our feeds. Rome, in Watts’ lens, was the first information empire—its laws, coins, and monuments functioning like code, replicating a shared operating system across continents.

He does not push the metaphor, but it is impossible not to. The Roman road network was their Internet; Latin was their HTML; imperial iconography their meme culture. Watts writes that “Rome bound its citizens through habit more than loyalty,” and one shivers at the modernity of that insight. We too are bound by habit—scrolling, consuming, and obeying the soft architectures of empire without realizing it.

That is where his book transcends history and enters philosophy. By refusing to declare a definitive end, Watts exposes the illusion of historical closure. Rome is a feedback loop, not a story. The Empire’s ruins are still running subroutines in our institutions, our architecture, even our imagination. He makes you realize that to be “modern” is simply to be Roman with better Wi-Fi.

For all its intellectual sophistication, the book never loses its human pulse. Watts writes with empathy for the individuals caught in Rome’s machinery—the bureaucrats who copied decrees in fading light, the monks who preserved Virgil while fearing damnation, the Renaissance scholars who dreamed of resurrecting Ciceronian prose. These vignettes humanize the grand arc, giving it texture and breath.

He is particularly moving when he writes about cultural loss. “Every generation of Romans,” he notes, “imagined itself as the last.” That melancholy—the awareness of living after greatness—is perhaps the most Roman emotion of all. And it feels strikingly familiar today, when many of us sense civilization teetering on exhaustion. Watts’ Romans are our psychological ancestors: haunted by memory, addicted to progress, always rebuilding ruins they refuse to admit are ruins.

His portrait of the late Byzantine world is suffused with this pathos. The empire is shrinking, yet the scholars of Constantinople copy ancient texts as if transcription could delay extinction. It’s impossible not to see a parallel with our own cultural moment—archiving data, digitizing libraries, preserving memes—frantic acts of memory in the face of impermanence.

Watts has a poet’s eye for ruins. He treats them not as dead relics but as sentences mid-written. His description of the Colosseum as “an architecture of memory where even emptiness performs” lingers long after the page. Throughout, he reminds us that Roman ruins were never meant to signify decay; they were designed to outlast meaning.

There is a quiet irony in his depiction of how later generations curated these ruins. The Renaissance rebuilt Rome not to resurrect the past but to aestheticize it. Michelangelo’s Rome was a museum of itself. In that transformation—from empire to exhibition—Watts finds another survival strategy. When power can no longer dominate, it can still be remembered. Rome’s afterlife lies in the art of self-commemoration.

That insight extends to the modern world. The global capitals of today—Washington, Paris, Delhi—borrow Rome’s grammar of authority: domes, columns, eagles. Our architecture still performs empire long after empire is supposed to be gone. Watts’ narrative thus becomes a meditation on memory as infrastructure. To build is to declare continuity. Every skyline is a palimpsest of Rome.

Beneath the historical storytelling runs a philosophical current about identity and time. Watts seems fascinated by how civilizations define themselves through opposition and inheritance. Rome’s genius was its ability to absorb the Other—Greek gods, Egyptian rites, barbarian troops—and rename them Roman. Assimilation as empire. In that flexibility lies a warning: when everything can be Romanized, authenticity becomes irrelevant.

He writes, “Rome endured by confusing absorption with victory.” That line feels eerily prophetic in our globalized era, where cultures merge through markets rather than conquest. The Roman dream of universality—the urbs et orbis—is now lived through economic networks and cultural algorithms. Watts forces us to confront the ethical ambivalence of survival: does endurance justify domination?

His discussion of Christianity pushes this further. When the Church inherits Rome’s mantle, it sanctifies empire while spiritualizing control. Watts neither condemns nor praises it; he simply notes the elegance of the transformation. The cross becomes the new standard, and Rome learns to rule hearts instead of provinces. The lesson, he implies, is timeless: every power learns to disguise itself in the language of virtue.

To read The Romans today is to stare at a mirror that flatters and frightens. The book arrived in a world preoccupied with decline narratives: environmental collapse, democratic fatigue, technological overreach. Watts’ 2,000-year chronicle offers both consolation and caution. Civilizations, he suggests, do not die; they dissolve into their successors. That’s comforting—until you realize it means the ghosts never leave.

As a reader living in the twenty-first century, I found myself haunted by the same melancholy that shadowed Petrarch on the Capitoline Hill. Our ruins are digital, not marble, but the emotion is the same: awe at the magnitude of what we’ve built, fear of how easily it could vanish. Watts’ narrative rhythm—measured, unsentimental—feels like a heartbeat reminding us that endurance requires reinvention.

And yet, amidst the analysis, a strange tenderness emerges. When he closes with the modern Vatican, Watts doesn’t declare triumph but continuity of conscience. The marble has aged, but the questions remain: How does a civilization remember without repeating? How do we inherit without ossifying?

Measured purely as history, the book is a triumph of compression and clarity. Covering twenty centuries in a single volume is an act of audacity bordering on madness, yet Watts maintains coherence through thematic unity rather than chronological excess. Each chapter illuminates a stage of Rome’s evolving self-concept—city, republic, empire, church, symbol.

His narrative economy recalls the best of Mary Beard’s accessibility but with more metaphysical depth. He writes not to simplify but to synthesize. The result is a panoramic yet intimate portrait of civilization as self-conversation. The book becomes a kind of civic autobiography of humanity itself.

As historiography, it challenges our obsession with “rise and fall.” Watts dismantles the Gibbonian morality play and replaces it with an ecological model of history—empires as organisms, decline as transformation. In that sense, his Rome is not tragic but Darwinian. Change or perish, and even perishing becomes another form of change.

What Impact Did the Book Have on Me?

Reading Watts left me in that peculiar emotional space between awe and quiet panic. Awe, because he captures the miracle of continuity; panic, because he makes you realize you are living inside it.

The Roman dream of order and spectacle, bureaucracy and beauty, still shapes our reflexes. Every spreadsheet, every legal code, every architectural cliché hums with Latin DNA.

Nevertheless, beyond recognition, the book reshaped how I think about history itself. Watts made me see that the past is not behind us but beneath us, like the layered foundations of Rome where ancient stones prop up modern streets. We walk daily on buried centuries. His narrative loosened my sense of linearity; time, I began to feel, is recursive. Civilizations do not end—they refract.

Emotionally, the book also softened something in me. It reminded me that fragility is not failure. Rome’s story is one of mistakes turned monuments. Every collapse becomes an archive.

That is an oddly comforting theology for our unstable present: even ruin has utility; even decline can seed renewal.

Why Should You Read This Book Today?

Because Rome, as Watts insists, is the rehearsal for everything. If you want to understand populism’s grammar, bureaucratic resilience, or the narcotic allure of nostalgia, it’s all here. Watts gives us the longest case study in adaptation ever recorded.

You should read it because it teaches historical humility. Empires, ideologies, even democracies—all think they’re eternal. Watts whispers otherwise. His Rome is the world’s most eloquent cautionary tale: power endures not by force but by reinvention.

You should also read it because its literature disguised as history. The prose glows with quiet lyricism, and the structure feels symphonic. It’s rare for a history book to make you feel the metaphysics of endurance. Watts does.

And finally, read it because it’s strangely hopeful. In a world anxious about decline, The Romans offers the paradoxical comfort that decay is another name for transformation. As long as we remember, rebuild, and reinterpret, civilization still breathes.

My Final Verdict:

The Romans: A 2,000-Year History is more than an historical synthesis; it’s a mirror polished by centuries. Watts’ gift lies in making continuity dramatic, survival suspenseful, and endurance beautiful.

His Rome lives, falters, prays, legislates, crumbles, resurrects—and in that endless metamorphosis, it becomes the biography of humanity itself.

The book’s rhythm feels almost musical: crescendos of conquest, adagios of theology, and fugues of bureaucracy. The closing chapters ring with quiet organ-notes of faith and irony. You finish it not with the sense of completion but of inheritance—as if Watts has passed you a fragment of the eternal city and whispered, take care of it; you are living in it now.

And maybe that’s the ultimate point. Rome was never marble; it was momentum. Watts captures that motion perfectly. His history refuses nostalgia yet honours memory, refuses despair yet acknowledges fatigue. It is both elegy and manual.

In the end, when I closed the book, I thought of that old Roman proverb—Roma aeterna est. Rome is eternal. Not because it never dies, but because it always finds new ways to be reborn.

Edward J. Watts has written its most eloquent resurrection yet.

[Nilesh Jasani · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Romans undertakes an ambitious project in narrating the story of an empire from its mythical founding by Romulus and Remus through to the fall of Constantinople during the later crusades. The result is a sweeping, continuous view of Roman civilization as a two-thousand-year phenomenon, rather than a tale of two separate empires. This framing is fascinating in itself because it allows the learned professor to trace the deep roots of institutions, divisions, and beliefs that still shape Europe and the Christian world. The emergence of the Orthodox Church, the estrangement between East and West, and even many of today’s Balkan and Eastern European rivalries all find their antecedents in the long continuity the book describes.

At its best, the book provides a clear and efficient retelling of key turning points. The writing is brisk. One gets to learn about the founding myths, the Republic’s unraveling, the Augustan settlement, the crises of late antiquity, and the eventual transformation into the empire of Constantinople — whose inhabitants, as he rightly reminds readers, never called themselves “Byzantines” at all. The second half is more interesting for those unaware of the details of the Byzantine empires’ evolution as much as those of the Roman Empire, like this reviewer. For a reader seeking a connected overview of both the Roman and Eastern Roman worlds, this single-volume account performs that duty with skill. The transitions between epochs are smooth, and one can sense the author’s admiration for Rome’s resilience.

But the same panoramic scope that makes The Romans so ambitious also proves its greatest weakness. The narrative rarely lingers anywhere long enough. Dozens of rulers, from Diocletian to Heraclius, from Theodora and Irene, from Justinian to Basil II, appear and vanish in quick succession, their reigns reduced to lists of reforms, campaigns, or palace intrigues. With so many centuries to cover, there is little space to capture what changed in the texture of human life in art, thought, social order, or the evolving relationship between rulers and the ruled. The book often feels like a series of imperial rise-and-fall summaries rather than a study of how Rome’s people, faith, and culture matured.

The absence of voices beyond the imperial court is especially felt. The philosophers, merchants, and theologians who gave shape to the Roman world rarely get a paragraph. Even the dramatic transformation from pagan to Christian civilization passes almost as a background event to the succession of emperors. One might wish that the author, who knows the material so well, had paused more often to interpret rather than to recount what it meant for the civilization’s evolving identity.

Still, as a comprehensive refresher for readers who want to understand how Rome’s legacy stretches from the Tiber to the Bosporus, The Romans serves its purpose. It reminds us that the line between the ancient and medieval worlds is far thinner than textbooks suggest. Yet those hoping for a deeper exploration of the cultural or philosophical heartbeat of that vast history will find themselves admiring the scope, but wishing for more intimacy.

[Hilary · Rating 5 out of 5]

Edward J. Watts’ The Romans offers a clear, engaging overview of Roman history from the legendary founding by Romulus and Remus to the fall of Constantinople in 1204. Covering both the Roman and Byzantine empires, Watts deftly summarizes key events, figures, battles, and political shifts without overwhelming the reader. While not an in-depth military history, it provides enough detail to spark deeper exploration, drawing on a wealth of primary and secondary sources. The narrative is accessible yet informative, making it an excellent primer for newcomers while still offering insights for seasoned history fans. Highly recommended for anyone curious about this remarkable civilization.

[S Ashok · Rating 3 out of 5]

Extremely well researched and succinctly written.

[Emma McGilvray · Rating 4 out of 5]

i really enjoyed reading this interpretation of what it means to be roman and the continuation of the empire in the east since it is different from what i have read before.