Did the Romans Have Maps?

When I was a young man, I lived in a part of rural West Wales, in northern Pembrokeshire, south of the River Teifi, but north of the Preseli mountains, where the bluestones that were used to build one of the first versions of Stonehenge were quarried from. Quite why they used these particular stones to build a monument hundreds of miles away is still a mystery. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the stones themselves - they're just stones - and so it seems likely that they dismantled and moved a monument that was local to the Preselis because it had some meaning lost to time.

The valley I grew up in was small. Really small. So small that during the winter months, the sun never got high enough in the sky to defrost one half of the valley, and so it remained frozen until April. It barely even registered on the map. The village had maybe twenty houses and, in those days, a pub, and that was it. You couldn't get a radio or TV reception. Our telephone number, when it worked, was '200'.

Occasionally, the outside world would find itself lost in The Valley, blinking, terrified and stunned - amazed that this dark, mossy, crypt-ancient corner of the world could exist in the latter years of the twentieth century. There was one road in The Valley and I use the word 'road' advisedly. It was barely the width of a single car, was frequently impassible due to abandoned tractors, landslides or itinerant cows and led from nowhere to nowhere. Maps were no good to you in The Valley. If you didn't know where you were, how could you know where you were meant to be? It just seemed better to get out of the car and stay there.

On our first ever visit to The Valley, when I was but a baby, my Father, lost but refusing to admit it, stopped a wandering local, who turned out to be a walnut-skinned man of indeterminable age called Eirawyn, to enquire the best way to get to Cardigan from where we were. "Eirawyn", by the way, is Welsh for "Snow White". I shit you not.

"Well, I wouldn't have started from here," replied Eirawyn.

"If you go down to the end of this road," he carried on, pointing helpfully in the only direction it was possible to travel in, "you'll come to a T-junction where you can turn left or right."

"Right...." Obviously, thought my Father.

"If you turn left and then left again and follow that road around, you'll come right back to here again, so don't turn left."

"O..k..."

"But if you turn right, you'll come to The Pub where you can have a drink or some crisps or some peanuts or a scotch egg if you're hungry. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Well, don't stop there then. If you drive past The Pub and turn right, it will take you to Capel Iwan, where you'll come to a crossroads. If you turn left at the crossroads, it will take you to Newcastle Emlyn, where you don't want to go."

"Riiight..."

"If you go straight on, it will take you back here again, so don't go that way."

"So I turn right?"

"Oh no. That will take you to Cwm Morgan, and you don't want to go that way, do you?"

"So..."

"So don't go that way," said Eirawyn, pointing down the road again. "Go that way". And he pointed back the way we'd arrived.

“What happens if I go that way?”

“That takes you to Cwm Morgan, where you’ve just been and where you don’t want to go, remember?”

“What if I go down there and turn left?”

“That’ll take you to Capel Iwan and the crossroads that you don’t want to be at”

“And if I turn right?”

“Then that will lead you back here, and you don’t want to be here, either.”

“What if I go straight on?”

“You can’t”

“Which way shall I go then?”. My Father was getting frustrated now.

Eirawyn thought about this for a while, scratching his chin.

“Well, like I said. I wouldn't have started from here."

In the end, my Father simply parked the car, got out, and purchased the nearest house, which seemed a simpler solution, and that was how we came to live in The Valley.

The Romans made it to this part of Wales which makes one wonder how they managed to get around, seeing as maps don't work in The Valley and asking the locals just results in total confusion.

Come to that, how did they get around anywhere? Did they simply follow the road in a pre-pointed direction, or did they have some form of map to follow?

To understand whether the Romans used maps as we understand them today, it is first essential to define what constitutes a "map." In modern terms, a map typically refers to a graphical representation of space, scaled and oriented to correspond with the real world, often used for navigation, planning, or visualising geopolitical or natural features. It describes both spatial precision and geographic orientation. However, the concept of a "functional map" must also be acknowledged: a tool that conveys spatial relationships, distances, and directions, even if not in geometrically accurate or graphically visualised terms. Roman mapping practices often seem to have prioritised function - administrative, military, or logistical - over precise geographic replication.

The question at hand - "Did the Romans use maps?" - requires nuance. If a map is a spatially accurate visual tool reflecting geographic reality, the Roman evidence is limited. If, however, a map can include symbolic or schematic representations designed to aid movement or organisation, then the Romans certainly produced such objects.

The Tabula Peutingeriana, or Peutinger Table, remains the most iconic cartographic artefact associated with Roman antiquity. Dating in its extant form to a 13th-century copy of a likely 4th-century AD original, the table is a long parchment scroll, over six metres in length, depicting the Roman road network across the empire. Its layout compresses the Mediterranean world into a ribbon-like strip, emphasising the routes and stations (mansiones) along imperial roads (Talbert, 2010).

The form of the Peutinger Table challenges any straightforward classification as a "map" in the modern sense. It is not geographically accurate—cities are not depicted to scale or in precise location, coastlines are stylised, and spatial relationships are distorted. Yet, its practical intent is unmistakable: it functions as a schematic itinerary, allowing users to calculate travel times, identify waystations, and visualise the relative ordering of destinations. As Talbert (2010, p. 47) notes, "its distorted geography... suggests it was never intended as a spatial reference, but rather a bureaucratic tool for calculating travel times."

The Table’s labelling conventions reinforce this view: cities are indicated with architectural icons, and major roads are shown as red lines connecting nodes. Distances are sometimes recorded between stations. The visual format may imply cartographic sensibility, but the focus remains functional - facilitating the movement of goods, troops, or officials rather than conveying spatial reality.

Another critical Roman cartographic artefact is the Forma Urbis Romae, or Severan Marble Plan. Commissioned under Septimius Severus around AD 203, this enormous marble plan of Rome measured approximately 18 by 13 metres and was mounted on a wall in the Templum Pacis. Only fragments survive—around 10% of the whole—but they reveal a highly detailed and scaled ground plan of Rome’s buildings, streets, and public spaces (Trimble, 2007).

The Forma Urbis is exceptional not only for its precision but also for its scale. It offers a near-modern representation of urban topography, with buildings depicted in orthographic projection. As Reynolds (1996) argues, this degree of architectural accuracy suggests a strong administrative function, likely aiding city planning, legal property disputes, and urban maintenance.

However, the Plan was fixed and immobile, so it is unlikely to be used for wayfinding or travel. Its scale made personal use implausible; it may have served more as a civic monument and reference for elite bureaucrats. Unlike the Peutinger Table, it is geographically faithful within its defined bounds, suggesting a conceptual capacity for accurate spatial representation when needed. Yet, it was still a static tool, less a map for navigation than a topographic record.

Claudius Ptolemy's Geography, compiled in the 2nd century AD, represents the most theoretical and abstracted form of Roman cartographic thinking. Unlike itineraries or schematic plans, Ptolemy’s work employed a grid-based system of latitude and longitude, derived from astronomical observations and traveller reports, to produce a mathematically structured worldview (Berggren & Jones, 2000).

The text outlines a systematic method for projecting the Earth onto a two-dimensional plane and includes coordinates for over 8,000 locations. Maps could be reconstructed from the data, though it is unclear whether Ptolemy himself or his contemporaries widely circulated visual maps derived from his coordinates.

Ptolemy's Geography is thus a hybrid: textual in its preserved form yet graphical in its theoretical underpinnings. Its value lies not in its practical application—there is little evidence Roman administrators or military planners used it—but in demonstrating a conceptualisation of space compatible with modern cartographic science. It shows that the intellectual framework for map-making existed, even if it was rarely implemented.

Supplementary materials such as the Antonine Itinerary, a listing of routes and distances between cities across the empire, reinforce the textual-functional model. Though not graphical, it was evidently used for practical travel planning. Similarly, the Dura-Europos shield map—a painted diagram possibly representing military encampments or routes—offers intriguing, though debated, evidence of spatial representation. Given its ambiguity and limited scope, it remains an outlier rather than proof of widespread graphic mapping.

Together, these artefacts illustrate a Roman approach to spatial representation that prioritised utility, often through non-graphic means, though capable of graphical sophistication when the context demanded it.

The Roman road network, stretching over 400,000 kilometres, was among the most advanced in the ancient world. Its functionality depended not on maps, but on milestones (miliaria) and itineraries. Milestones typically recorded the distance to the nearest major city or to Rome, sometimes including the name of the emperor under whom the road was constructed (Laurence, 1999).

Travellers and couriers would have used these milestones in conjunction with memorised or written itineraries to traverse the empire. The Itinerarium Antonini and Itinerarium Burdigalense (Bordeaux Itinerary) provide clear examples. These texts list sequences of stations and the distances between them, enabling a form of route-based navigation that did not require visual spatial reference.

The emphasis was on connectivity and sequence, not geographic orientation. The roads themselves functioned as physical maps: signposted, standardised, and predictable. As Laurence (1999) argues, movement in the Roman world was guided by infrastructure, not abstraction. In such a context, graphic maps were unnecessary.

Maritime navigation posed different challenges. Here, too, the Romans relied on non-graphic tools—principally the periplus, or sailing itinerary. The Periplus Maris Erythraei, a Greco-Roman text from the 1st century AD, outlines the sequence of ports, coastal landmarks, and sailing conditions from the Red Sea to India (Casson, 1989).

These documents functioned as pilot books, used by merchants and navigators to anticipate currents, winds, and hazards. They were practical, empirical, and rooted in observation. As Casson (1989) notes, seafarers depended on sightlines, astronomical cues, and oral transmission rather than charts. There is little evidence of portolan-style maps in Roman antiquity.

Nevertheless, Roman maritime power, projected across the Mediterranean and beyond, functioned effectively without cartographic aids in the modern sense. The periplus served as a navigational tool adapted to the cognitive geography of ancient seafarers.

Military operations, with their need for planning, provisioning, and movement, seem an ideal context for map usage. Yet evidence for cartographic tools in Roman military contexts remains scarce. Vegetius, in his 4th-century Epitoma Rei Militaris, offers detailed logistical advice but does not mention maps explicitly.

Instead, military surveyors (agrimensores) used gromas and chorographic principles to measure and record land. Tactical awareness was achieved through local knowledge, scouts, and standardised marching routes. Goldsworthy (1996) argues that Roman commanders preferred practical intelligence to abstract representations. Orders of march, terrain descriptions, and known distances formed the core of military navigation.

The Dura-Europos diagram, potentially associated with a shield design or spatial planning, hints at cartographic experimentation, but remains exceptional. The general absence of battlefield maps suggests a reliance on structured knowledge, oral reports, and direct reconnaissance rather than visual aids.

The question "Did the Romans use maps?" is best answered with a qualified affirmation. The Romans did not typically produce or use maps as we understand them - graphically accurate, portable, and widely disseminated representations of geographic space. Instead, they developed a variety of tools: itineraries, milestones, schematic tables, and large-scale urban plans. Each served a specific function - administrative, navigational, or ceremonial - rather than offering a universal spatial overview.

In this context, tools like the Peutinger Table and Forma Urbis Romae fulfilled cartographic roles, albeit narrowly defined ones. Ptolemy's Geography proves that the Romans, or at least intellectual elites, could conceptualise space in abstract, scientific terms. Yet this capacity did not translate into widespread practical application. The Roman world navigated, governed, and fought without maps in the modern sense, not due to ignorance or incapacity, but because its systems were designed around other priorities.

The Romans prioritised function over form, sequence over scale, and connectivity over cartographic fidelity. Their spatial intelligence was encoded in roads, inscriptions, texts, and practices, not primarily in images. In many ways, their approach was more effective for the empire's needs than maps would have been. After all, their system worked—why would they need our maps?

References and Further Reading

Berggren, J. L., & Jones, A. (2000). Ptolemy's Geography: An Annotated Translation of the Theoretical Chapters. Princeton University Press.

Casson, L. (1989). The Periplus Maris Erythraei: Text with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary. Princeton University Press.

Goldsworthy, A. (1996). The Roman Army at War: 100 BC–AD 200. Oxford University Press.

Laurence, R. (1999). The Roads of Roman Italy: Mobility and Cultural Change. Routledge.

Reynolds, D. (1996). Forma Urbis Romae: The Severan Marble Plan and Urban Topography. Papers of the British School at Rome, 64, 123–140.

Talbert, R. J. A. (2010). Rome's World: The Peutinger Map Reconsidered. Cambridge University Press.

Trimble, J. (2007). The Aesthetics of the Fragment: The Severan Marble Plan and the Vision of Rome. In The Art Bulletin, 89(2), 287–306.