In the sun-soaked lands near Seville, Spain, history often lies buried beneath layers of time and earth, waiting for the curious and determined to unearth its secrets. Such was the case in 2019 when archaeologists excavating near Carmona stumbled upon a discovery that has since captivated both scholars and oenophiles alike—a funerary urn containing what was once the oldest liquid wine ever found.
Recovered from an ancient Roman tomb, the urn held a mysterious reddish-brown liquid alongside the cremated bones of a man and a gold ring adorned with the two-faced Roman god, Janus. This remarkable find, detailed in a recent study published in the “Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports”, has shed new light on Roman burial practices and the enduring allure of wine in ancient Mediterranean culture.
The tomb itself, carved into the rock with meticulous care, stood as a testament to Roman reverence for the departed. “Romans were proud, even in death,” explained José Rafael Ruiz Arrebola, co-author of the study and an organic chemist from the University of Córdoba. Unlike grand monuments that adorned the skyline, this tomb was concealed, safeguarding its treasures from looters for over two millennia.
Inside the tomb, researchers uncovered eight burial niches, each cradling urns made of various materials—glass, lead, limestone, and sandstone. Among these, one glass urn stood out, not just for its contents but for the unexpected liquid it held. “We did not expect it to contain liquid, much less the quantity found,” remarked Ruiz Arrebola, highlighting the surprise and significance of their discovery.
Laboratory analyses conducted on the liquid confirmed it to be wine, albeit transformed by time into a mixture chemically resembling wine, yet with a distinct reddish-brown hue. Ruiz Arrebola noted that it was the oldest wine to have been found, with cautious excitement. The researchers identified key wine polyphenols and determined that the wine was made from white grapes, a revelation made possible by the absence of syringic acid—a telltale sign of red wine’s decay.
Beyond its historical importance, the wine’s potential drinkability added another layer of intrigue. Ruiz Arrebola assured that the wine was not deemed toxic post microbiological analysis. Yet, he hesitated to partake, mindful of its millennia-long slumber alongside a Roman’s remains. His colleague, Daniel Cosano, however, braved a sip, describing its flavor as salty, a characteristic mirroring its chemical composition.
This find catapults the Carmona discovery into a league of its own, surpassing even the renowned bottle found in Speyer, Germany, dating to 325 C.E., which was previously the oldest liquid wine known. The implications stretch beyond mere curiosity; they provide a tangible link to ancient rituals and beliefs surrounding death and the afterlife.
As we marvel at this glimpse into Roman life through a vessel long buried, questions arise about the cultural significance of wine in ancient times. Was this wine intended to accompany the departed on their journey to the beyond, or was it a cherished offering by loved ones honoring their memory? Such mysteries continue to beckon scholars and enthusiasts to unravel the enigmatic tapestry of the past, one sip—or study—at a time.
In the quietude of Carmona’s tomb, amidst the whispers of history and the echoes of lives long gone, the ancient Roman wine waits patiently, offering a taste of antiquity to those bold enough to partake—a testament to the enduring legacy of human curiosity and the timeless allure of a fine vintage.
