Since the dawn of humanity, men have traced their paths: paths made by their footsteps, by their animals, roads rutted with the wheels of their chariots. But only the ancient Romans built eighty thousand kilometres of roads that radiate out to the whole of Europe: roads for eternity.
Like the Salaria, the old salt road, along which antiquity’s most valuable mineral was carried by mule.
Or the Appia, the first real consular road, built after bloody wars with neighbouring peoples in order to consolidate Roman rule in the south of the peninsula. This military road was constructed by the blind censor Appius Claudius, who examined the paving stone by stone, with his bare feet.
Or the Aurelia and the Tiburtina, roads created to facilitate the transhumance of flocks.
Or the Cassia, which in the Middle Ages became part of the Via Francigena for pilgrims heading to the great shrines of Europe. The centuries pass and these ancient paths become controlled by brigands. But the roads resist and are still here: the roads of time.