Written By Max Milano
By Max Milano (Travel Writer)
In the quiet suburb of Llíria, just outside Valencia, Spain, I find myself standing beneath an apartment building, where a grand subterranean space was once meant to be a parking lot for the luxury apartments above. But a builder's shovel struck more than just rock; it hit a Roman tombstone. The tombstone turned out to be part of a large Roman-era mausoleum. The city's swift intervention preserved the site, at the cost of the building losing its underground parking.
This is a familiar tale in Spain, a country where Roman ruins are as common as their fiestas. Llíria's ground regularly gives up its ancient secrets: a nymphaeum's stone tablet found in a nearby pond, a cache of freshly minted Roman denarii unearthed under a house, the base of a Roman triumphal arch standing quietly on a sidewalk, and most spectacularly, a magnificent mosaic floor depicting the 12 Labors of Hercules, part of the ruins of a Roman villa buried beneath the modern town.
Around me, the remains of mausoleums stand with classical touches—Doric columns, friezes, mosaics, and inscriptions etched in that timeless Roman script. The builders may have lost their parking lot, but we gained a glimpse into Roman funerary practices from the time of the first Empire.
By the time the Romans were embroiled in the Second Punic War, Llíria, or Edeta as it was known, had already established itself as a significant Iberian town. A pivotal moment came when a local chieftain sided with Rome against Carthage, rallying nearby settlements to join the Roman cause. This alliance paved the way for Roman dominance over the entire Iberian Peninsula.
Layer Cake
The developers of the luxury building above the Roman necropolis were permitted to build lofts, compensating for the lost parking space. This makes me wonder how many Roman treasures have been quietly reburied by less scrupulous builders. It's a reminder of how much history lies beneath our feet—from the Forum in Rome, 12 feet below modern sidewalks, to Mexico City's Templo Mayor, rediscovered during roadworks near the Zócalo.
I recall my first encounter with Roman archaeology in York, Northern England—Eboracum to the Romans. In a museum, they displayed a cross-section of the city's archaeological layers: Celtic, Roman, Medieval, Victorian, and finally, 21st-century debris—McDonald's wrappers and Starbucks cups. History is a layer cake, and we are just the latest topping!
Emerging from the subterranean ruins of the Roman Mausoleum of Llíria, we walk a couple of blocks to our primary destination: the Sanctuary and Roman Baths of Mura, one of the most spectacularly preserved Roman bath complexes in Iberia. The town is deserted in the blazing summer sun, save for us and the occasional madman or Englishman.
We find the Mura complex closed, encircled by a chain-link fence. Peering through, we catch glimpses of Roman columns, hot and cold plunge pools, and underground furnaces that once powered the caldarium, now resembling brick pizza ovens. I use my zoom lens to capture the intricate mosaics and the remnants of frescoes on the walls—reminders that Romans lived to socialize, gossip, snack, and leave offerings to their gods in their bathhouses.
Llíria's vast bathhouse complex and oracle temple are testaments to its importance as a Roman settlement when it was called Edeta. This city was the birthplace of Marcus Cornelius Nigrinus, who rose from consul to senator and nearly to the throne of the Roman Empire.
During Nigrinus's ascent in the late 1st and 2nd centuries A.D., Edeta flourished in the Pax Romana, when Roman funds were poured into urban development—forums, circuses, temples, and engineering marvels that still endure today.
We spot someone unlocking the gate to the Roman baths—we're in luck! It turns out visitors are supposed to request access at the tourist office, located in the luxury condo above the Roman necropolis. A sign would have been nice.
Inside, my footsteps tread over the same mosaics that felt the soles of countless Romans. They most likely wore indoor sandals called solea, or the pricier carbatinae. The famous caligae of Roman legionnaires were likely left at the door, especially in the bathhouse.
Llíria's Archaeological Museum
Our first visit to Llíria had been on a Sunday evening, as the setting sun cast golden rays onto the Baroque façade of the church of L'Assumpció. We sat in a café, sipping cold drinks, as the sun's rays transformed the church's stone into a warm, glowing canvas.
Above the church, on a steep hill, stands Església de la Sang, a former mosque now serving as a reminder of the town's Islamic period. Just behind it lies the Llíria Archaeological Museum. Since everything was closed on a Sunday evening, we made plans to return midweek, early in the morning, as the museums close by noon.
Leaving the Roman bath complex, we make the steep climb to the museum. You definitely don't want to do this during the heat of siesta time. The twisting cobblestone streets lead us to Església de la Sang, its blue-tiled cupola glistening in the sunlight. Across from it, the modern archeology museum building beckons, though we're directed to enter through the back entrance.
We enter the museum through the service door at the back and are immediately surrounded by a treasure trove of Roman artifacts—pottery, amphorae, oil lamps, coins, mosaics, and stone tablets—all stored on shelves and buckets. Most museums display only a fraction of their collection, and Llíria’s Archaeological Museum is no exception.
A friendly guide ushers us into the main exhibit, enthusiastically sharing the stories of the Roman treasures found in her town, from the nymphaeum stone tablet to ongoing excavations. We're invited to return and speak with the director, an archaeologist deeply passionate about Llíria's layered history—from Iberians to Romans, Visigoths to reconquest-era Christians.
She points to the church across the street, once a mosque, and explains how the grand L'Assumpció church below lacks a bell tower, so they use the ones from the smaller church on top, the Església de la Sang.
Església de la Sang bells are housed in an espadaña (a simple gable wall with arches for bells). This style of belltower, brought to the Americas by the Spanish conquistadors, became a hallmark of California Missions—a long chain from Spain to the New World.
Valentia Edetanorum
In Valencia, I stand underground, gazing up through a large skylight covered by a thin layer of water. The skylight belongs to Valencia’s La Almoina Archaeological Museum. The sunlight dances through the water, casting rippling light onto the Roman ruins beneath my feet—ancient Valentia's thermae, or baths. Nearby, skeletons of soldiers lie, victims of Pompey's brutal razing of the city in 75 B.C. during the Sertorian War.
Valencia, or Valentia Edetanorum, was one of the few Roman colonies in Hispania purposely built on fertile land awarded to veterans of the Lusitanian Wars. Founded in 138 B.C., its location on a river island along the Via Augusta gave it easy access by road and sea to Rome and the rest of the Mediterranean.
After Pompey's destruction, Valentia was nearly deserted, but its prime location led to its rebirth. By Augustus's time, it had grown into a grand Roman city with a circus, baths, and temples—all now buried beneath modern Valencia's old town.
Roman cities were built to last, and Valencia is no exception. New invaders built atop Roman foundations, adding layers and burying the Roman world. The lower sections of Valencia's cathedral and surrounding churches still feature Roman structures, including a Visigoth mural painted in Roman style depicting Hermes, the messenger god.
Just above the Roman thermae, archaeologists uncovered a Moorish-era courtyard, part of Valencia's layer cake: Roman, Visigothic, Moorish, and finally Christian medieval—a return to Roman traditions, language, and architecture.
Roman Debris
Spain's turbulent history, compounded by Franco's dictatorship, had left little room for preserving ancient ruins. Valencia was no exception—Roman ruins were buried under unsightly modern buildings, their exact locations forgotten.
In the 1990s, archaeologists began digging next to Valencia's Cathedral, uncovering a treasure trove of Roman artifacts.
The excavations led to the creation of the La Almoina Archaeological Museum, with its mesmerizing skylight. However, not all Roman artifacts entered the museum; some were deemed unworthy and unceremoniously dumped in a nearby park.
Curious, we walk to this park in the old Turia riverbed. The river Turia was prone to flooding, so it was moved away from the city center. The dry riverbed is now a park, crossed by ancient bridges with stairs that once led to the water but now just deposit you on dry dirt.
We approach the "dumped" Roman treasures with trepidation and reverence. The scattered columns friezes, and stone tablets create a disordered, Stonehenge-like collection of Roman relics.
Cypresses stand sentinel among the ruins, evoking the ghost of a forgotten Roman settlement.
We sit among the ruins, tracing the carved lines on the stone tablets, reading the tales of power, love, death, and history inscribed by Roman hands. The stones speak, telling stories of a city that once thrived here over 2,000 years ago.
Stay tuned to GuiriGuru for more Roman Spain explorations and weekly Spain expat and travel tips.
Max Milano is a travel writer and photographer based in Los Angeles, California, and Valencia, Spain. His latest photography book, Mexico City Noir, Life Under The Volcanoes, is Available on Amazon. Bookings and Prints of his photos are available at MaxMilanoPix
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