What happened to Pompeii and Herculaneum is not really a subject that needs much in the way of explanation. Big volcano gets angry - little towns get smashed. Boy meets girl - boy and girl fall in love - boy and girl get evaporated by a tsunami of superheated sludge. It's the love story of the ages but with added terrified screaming and the earth itself being rent asunder by staggering geological forces.
Nobody lives happily ever after.
The events of the eruption itself were beautifully and evocatively reported by Pliny the Younger, who was staying at the time in the villa of the bay of Naples of his uncle (and adoptive father), the writer Pliny the Elder. The elder Pliny was, at the time, in command of a naval fleet at Misenum and so sailed his ships dangerously close to the tumultuous shores, among the boiling seas and toxic vapours to rescue desperate people fleeing the horror. Pliny describes skies smeared charcoal-black and burning like the pits of hell until, under its own weight, the enormous stack of searing hot cloud, ash and death that was being spewed miles into the atmosphere, lightning flashing from the rolling doom, collapsed, sending the searing avalanche racing towards the cowering towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Staggering beneath a hail of pumice, his head spinning from the carbon monoxide, the Elder Pliny fell during one of his various rescue sorties and died there, his body only being recovered the next day. The whole scene was so precisely and frighteningly described that similar eruptions, with the towering gas cloud that Pliny described as similar in shape to a stone pine tree, are known as Plinian eruptions. Recent famous Plinian eruptions include Mt St. Helens in 1980 and Pinatubo in 1991.
The resulting pyroclastic surge is what did for Pompeii and Herculaneum, not, as some think, a lava flow, but a white-hot sludge of ash, gas, and debris that flooded the surrounding areas, burying them in a silt that then set concrete-hard. None of this is news, of course, but the question that has always itched away at the back of the inquisitive conscience is about what happened next?
Did people just wonder where the two cities went? Was there enough of either left behind to carry on living in? What rescue efforts went on? And what about the subsequent centuries? Were they simply forgotten about, or did the scarred stumps of the ghost towns haunt the edges of Napoli society for decades afterwards?
On 24 August AD 79 (probably), Mount Vesuvius erupted with devastating violence, burying the prosperous Roman towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum beneath pumice, ash, and pyroclastic flows. This cataclysmic event has become one of the most famous natural disasters of the ancient world, owing in no small part to the exceptional preservation of both towns beneath the volcanic debris. While modern interest has focused extensively on the eruption itself and the last moments of those who perished, the question of what followed - socially, administratively, and materially - deserves equally rigorous investigation.
In two letters addressed to the historian Tacitus, Pliny the Younger recounts the events surrounding the elder Pliny's death and describes the panic and disorientation of the affected populations (Pliny, Epistulae 6.16, 6.20). These letters, composed some twenty-five years after the eruption, remain the only extant eyewitness testimony and provide our earliest evidence of Roman efforts to respond to the catastrophe. They show that at least some naval action was undertaken in response to the unfolding disaster, although it is unclear whether this was an organised rescue attempt or a spontaneous decision on the part of Pliny the Elder, who commanded the fleet at Misenum.
In terms of official state action, the most significant testimony comes from an imperial inscription recovered at Misenum. The CIL (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum) records a rescriptum attributed to the emperor Titus, indicating that financial relief was provided for the region (CIL X 1146). Although the inscription itself is fragmentary, it references rebuilding efforts and suggests a measure of imperial involvement in the aftermath. Titus, who had succeeded his father Vespasian only months earlier, is credited by the historian Suetonius with demonstrating considerable compassion and decisiveness in office. According to Suetonius (Titus 8), he visited the disaster area and took steps to relieve the suffering of survivors, though the historian's tendency toward imperial fluffing warrants some circumspection in interpretation.
No detailed Roman administrative report on the eruption survives, nor is there evidence of systematic state-driven excavation or corpse retrieval. Nonetheless, the literary and epigraphic record supports the conclusion that Titus, as emperor, did not ignore the event. His reign was already marked by other calamities, a major fire in Rome and a plague outbreak, both in AD 80, and it is plausible that imperial resources were thinly stretched. Yet the issuing of financial aid, the probable temporary resettlement of some populations, and the personal engagement of the emperor all suggest that the disaster was treated as a serious matter of state. In the absence of a unified Roman disaster protocol, the response to Vesuvius appears to have drawn on military resources, ad hoc local administration, and imperial largesse.
The archaeological record does not show any immediately obvious attempts at large-scale clearance of the towns. Unlike later urban disasters (such as the great fire of Rome in AD 64), there is no evidence that Pompeii or Herculaneum underwent systematic clearance or rebuilding. The nature of the volcanic debris itself, particularly the solidified pyroclastic surges that encased Herculaneum, rendered excavation extremely difficult, if not technically impossible, with Roman tools. While Pompeii was buried under lighter pumice and ash, even here the town appears to have been quickly abandoned as uninhabitable. There are no architectural interventions, no new construction phases, and no reoccupation layers in the immediate decades after the eruption. The silence of the stratigraphy suggests not neglect, but rather an overwhelmed response, a population displaced, an economy disrupted, and two cities entombed beyond recovery.
This would suggest a Roman world capable of compassion but constrained by logistics. The eruption was recognised, responded to, mourned and, at least to some extent, relieved. Yet the ultimate fate of the towns lay not in swift recovery, but in abandonment.
While the eruption brought sudden and irreversible destruction to the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum, it did not obliterate all life. Many, indeed most, residents survived, particularly those who fled in the early phases of the eruption or who were not present in the towns at the time. Although the famous 'bodies' of both towns are numerous, Pompeii had a peak population of perhaps 20,000 people, and so it is evident that the vast majority of the population managed to escape. The number of displaced people across both towns must have been more than 20,000, and the question of what became of these displaced populations is a central concern in understanding the broader consequences of the catastrophe. Yet the evidence is, by its nature, fragmentary. Survivors left no literary testimonies, and few epigraphic traces directly identify individuals as refugees from the eruption. However, from what remains, dispersed inscriptions, land reassignments, and the conspicuous absence of certain familial lines, some tentative conclusions may be drawn.
There is no surviving record of an organised resettlement scheme akin to later Roman colonisation efforts. Nevertheless, archaeological and epigraphic indications suggest that survivors dispersed into nearby towns such as Nuceria, Stabiae, Naples, and even across the Bay to Puteoli and Misenum. Inscriptions found in Nuceria, for instance, record the names of individuals or families with strong Pompeian connections, including rare cognomina that previously appear in Pompeii but not elsewhere (Epigraphik-Datenbank Clauss/Slaby, CIL X 1075). This provides suggestive evidence of population displacement and social integration, even if the individuals themselves are not explicitly labelled as refugees.
Other clues come from land transfers and property reassignment in the years following the eruption. The agricultural zones surrounding Pompeii, known for their fertility, would have been partially salvageable after the disaster. A number of ager publicus inscriptions in the region, dating to the Flavian period, show evidence of reallocation or reassignment of land holdings, possibly to displaced elites or veterans (CIL X 1025). Although it is not always possible to determine whether these transfers were related to the eruption, the timing and location are conspicuous. Given that Pompeii had a substantial municipal aristocracy, evidenced by its numerous electoral inscriptions and public dedications, it is likely that at least some displaced elites were able to re-establish themselves elsewhere, possibly with the help of imperial patronage.
More difficult to trace are the poorer segments of the population. Slaves, freedmen, and smallholders formed the demographic backbone of Pompeii and Herculaneum, yet their lives often went unrecorded unless they belonged to wealthy households. For these individuals, displacement may have meant disappearance from the historical record. Some may have entered the labour markets of nearby towns, others may have rejoined extended family networks in the surrounding region, while many may have perished during or shortly after the eruption. Their fate, like that of much of the ancient poor, is largely invisible to posterity.
One exceptional inscription, found in the Campanian countryside, records the name of a freedwoman who identified herself as formerly of Herculaneum (CIL X 1042). Although brief, the text confirms both survival and relocation. It also hints at the maintenance of local identity after displacement, suggesting that survivors continued to associate themselves with their places of origin, even as those places ceased to exist in a functional sense.
Civic identity itself, the idea of being 'of Pompeii' or 'of Herculaneum', may have persisted among survivors. Although both towns effectively ceased to exist as administrative units after the eruption, memory of their institutions and local affiliations likely endured within families. A handful of inscriptions from later periods reference individuals whose names match known Pompeian decurions or duumviri, although conclusive links remain elusive. The absence of any effort to reconstitute either municipality elsewhere suggests that, while memory persisted, institutional continuity did not. This stands in contrast to Roman practices in other disasters, such as the earthquake in Lugdunum (modern Lyon) in AD 17, where the town was rebuilt with imperial support (Tacitus, Annals 2.47).
The Roman state, while evidently willing to provide emergency relief, did not attempt to preserve the political or urban identity of the destroyed towns. This may reflect a practical judgement about their total uninhabitability. It may also indicate a broader Roman tendency to accept certain forms of loss as permanent. Towns could be rebuilt after fire or earthquake, but in the face of metres-thick volcanic deposition and the deaths of thousands, Pompeii and Herculaneum were, in essence, removed from the map.
Nonetheless, the living carried fragments of their destroyed world with them. Names, memories, and perhaps even portable cult objects would have accompanied them into their new lives. Whether in a neighbouring forum or a countryside villa, the displaced survivors of Pompeii and Herculaneum continued to shape the Roman world, even as their former homes fell silent beneath the ash.
Following the initial abandonment of Pompeii and Herculaneum, the question arises: did anyone return? And if so, for what purpose? The archaeological record provides a nuanced answer. In both towns, there is clear evidence of later intrusions into the buried strata, such as narrow tunnels bored through the sediment, forcibly opened doorways, and disrupted stratigraphic layers, all pointing to ancient attempts to access the ruins. Yet these efforts do not represent organised excavation in any modern sense. Rather, they reflect targeted and piecemeal activity, most likely aimed at recovering valuables or sacred objects.
At Herculaneum, the compacted pyroclastic flows made access extremely difficult. Nevertheless, several shafts and corridors have been identified beneath later structures that cut directly into sealed rooms. In one notable case, a tunnel led into a room containing bronze and marble statuary, where objects were evidently disturbed or removed before the site was abandoned again. The absence of tool marks typical of modern excavation, combined with Roman-era construction techniques visible in the tunnels, has led archaeologists to conclude that these interventions occurred within a generation or two of the eruption.
Similar activity has been documented at Pompeii. In several insulae, breach points are visible in upper walls, suggesting entry from above by individuals seeking access to the buried rooms. In some cases, the disturbances appear to have been conducted with care, with walls left intact, valuables apparently extracted, and no evidence of widespread vandalism. In other areas, damage was more substantial, indicating either multiple entries over time or less organised scavenging. There is no archaeological signature of state-sanctioned clearance or retrieval; these incursions appear to have been the work of private individuals or families returning to reclaim possessions.
The possibility that these early visitors were recovering bodies or searching for missing relatives cannot be excluded, but the evidence overwhelmingly points toward economic motivation. Roman religion emphasised proper burial and funerary rites, yet the depth and danger of the deposits made systematic recovery unlikely. Moreover, the very few ancient references to the towns after the eruption are silent on any large-scale exhumation or commemoration. If mourning occurred, it did so elsewhere, away from the sealed and inaccessible tomb that the cities had become.
By the second century AD, active engagement with the sites seems to have ceased entirely. No later coins, pottery, or building interventions have been found within the ruins. The volcano's debris became a deterrent rather than an invitation. Over time, nature reclaimed the terrain, and both Pompeii and Herculaneum were lost beneath layers of earth, ash, and vegetation. Villas and farms were built atop their remains, often unaware of what lay below.
Having said all that, Suetonius' account of the life of Titus gives us a brief snapshot of how the initial attempts at dealing with the sites was approached:
"He chose commissioners by lot from among the ex-consuls for the relief of Campania, and the property of those who died in the eruption and had left no heirs alive was given over to the rebuilding of the devastated cities."
(Titus, 8)
This would suggest that the initial plan was to rebuild the towns, something that obviously soon proved to be impractical, but was at least taken seriously enough for Titus, who took such disasters very much to heart, to address the legal aspects of who owned the ruins of what was left behind. His ruling that anything that remained that appeared to have no legal owner should be requisitioned by the state shows that his first intention was that the state should rebuild the cities. Given his response to the disastrous fire in Rome of the same period - "I am ruined!" (Titus, 8) - he probably intended to pay for the efforts himself. The 'ruin' he was expressing was not referring to the devastation being wrought, but to the financial burden that he was about to undertake in financing the work ahead, something that he didn't have to do personally but felt bound by his admirable sense of duty.
The reason these works never came about can be put down, in all probability, to one man - his brother Domitian, who succeeded Titus after his tragically short stay in power and had no interest whatsoever in being nice to anyone or spending a single penny on rebuilding anything. The fates of Pompeii and Herculaneum were sealed as much by the raging volcano that was Domitian as much as they were by Vesuvius.
The fate of Pompeii and Herculaneum across the long centuries between the Roman world and modernity is marked by silence. Ancient references to either town after the eruption are exceedingly rare. Writers of the second and third centuries do not discuss the towns in historical or cultural terms. This absence is striking. Unlike Troy, Carthage, or even the briefly ruined Corinth, Pompeii and Herculaneum did not become part of the mythos of lost cities. They were neither lamented as martyrs to natural forces nor used as cautionary tales by moralists. They simply disappeared.
Epigraphic evidence suggests that local populations continued to inhabit the surrounding region. Inscriptions from Nuceria, Stabiae, and the ager Campanus continued through the second and third centuries, but there is no hint that those people regarded Pompeii and Herculaneum as anything other than obliterated spaces. Nor do Christian sources of late antiquity refer to them as sites of martyrdom, judgment, or divine wrath, despite the parallels that could have been drawn between the eruption and Biblical destruction narratives. Even in a period increasingly concerned with signs and portents, the towns were not reinterpreted into theological or eschatological frameworks.
The Middle Ages did not resurrect them either. Cartographic and literary sources from the medieval period show little to no knowledge of either town. Pompeii's location was largely forgotten, while Herculaneum was occasionally confused with other sites along the coast, particularly Resina. Local memory seems to have preserved the name of the mountain—Vesuvius—and its fiery nature, but not the precise fate of the buried towns. When the Renaissance began to rediscover the texts and material culture of classical antiquity, the cities remained buried, their existence unsuspected by the antiquarians scouring Campania for relics of Rome.
The modern rediscovery was, like so many historical breakthroughs, accidental. In 1738, workmen digging for the foundations of a summer palace at Portici stumbled upon marble statuary and inscriptions that were eventually identified as belonging to Herculaneum. Excavations began, at first haphazardly, then with increasing systematic intent under Charles of Bourbon, King of Naples. Pompeii followed in 1748. The soil was lighter, the ruins more accessible, and soon the site yielded its streets, mosaics, frescoes, and skeletons. For the first time in over 1,600 years, the cities re-entered the human imagination, not as ruins merely, but as snapshots of Roman life preserved in terrifying clarity.
Yet this rediscovery was also a form of reinterpretation. The eruption was no longer a local disaster; it became a symbol of vanished civilisations and the fragility of culture. Nineteenth and twentieth-century writers imposed Romantic and moralistic readings onto the cities, sometimes using them as emblems of decadence or divine punishment. But these were projections. The reality, as the evidence confirms, is more subdued. Two towns were destroyed. Some escaped. Some returned. Others vanished.
And the land covered its dead.
References and Further Reading
Pliny the Younger. (n.d.). Letters (Epistulae 6.16, 6.20). In J. B. Firth (Trans.), The letters of Pliny the Younger
Suetonius. (2025). The Twelve Caesars (J. Coverley, Trans.) The Cych Press.
Tacitus. (n.d.). Annals (Annales 2.47). In A. J. Church & W. J. Brodribb (Trans.), The complete works of Tacitus.
Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL). (1893–). Vol. X: Inscriptiones Bruttiorum, Lucaniae, Campaniae. Berlin: De Gruyter.
Epigraphik-Datenbank Clauss / Slaby (EDCS).
The Twelve Caesars, quoted above and translated by yours truly, is available as an ebook by clicking the link below or online everywhere you expect to find books.
I'd think that the memories among the wealthy ex residents of both towns that survived was a factor, because both had suffered significant damage in the earthquakes prior to the big eruption, and there were still buildings damaged and under repair in 79. They simply looked on rebuilding as a bad investment, beyond the reluctance to return to the scene of a trauma. Also, practically, Herculaneum's access to the sea was lost, which was vital to the town. the coast literally moved, and access to a working harbor was part of what made Herculaneum a popular seaside resort town.
Fascinating read! Haven’t really ever thought about the aftermath until reading your work. Thank you.