Through the veil of time, a woman’s gaze meets ours—serene, knowing, eternal. This is Isidora, whose name lingers upon the fragile remnants of her cartonnage, the linen-wrapped shell that once cradled her in death. Hers is a face preserved in the exquisite art of the Romano-Egyptian mummy portrait, a testament to both beauty and remembrance.

Her hair, woven into an intricate braid, reflects the height of fashion in the early second century A.D., adorned with a gleaming gold hairpin. Gold-and-pearl earrings catch the light, while three sumptuous necklaces—heavy with gold and jewels—grace her neck. At the time of her burial, delicate touches of gold leaf were applied: a wreath nestled in her hair, a shimmering border framing her likeness, and tiny gilded embellishments lending her jewels an ethereal glow where once only yellow paint had rendered their splendour.

In life, Isidora would have prepared her complexion with a Roman face cream, a curious blend of beef fat, wheat starch, and tin oxide—surprisingly akin to the tinted moisturisers of today. For definition and allure, she would have lined her eyes with kohl, stored in a vessel not unlike the glᴀss jars of modern beauty tables. The ancients, it seems, may have favoured more than one shade to enhance their eyes, just as we do now. A delightful detail: the word ‘kohl’ originates from the Arabic for ‘antimony’, a substance believed to ward off eye infections—a fusion of cosmetics and cure that dates back to the grand civilisation of the pharaohs.

The delicate artistry of this portrait is attributed to the so-called Isidora Master, named for the inscription upon her cartonnage. This painter, working in Roman Egypt during the early years of the second century A.D., was a virtuoso of encaustic—the mesmerising technique of painting with H๏τ, pigmented wax. His signature lies in his deft use of a minute spatula to layer the wax, conjuring depth, warmth, and light with breathtaking subtlety.

Though little of Isidora’s mummy case endures, we know it belonged to a rare group of burials swathed in striking reddish-coloured shrouds. In the mystic beliefs of Ancient Egypt, red was the colour of life itself—a hue of power, rebirth, and the eternal cycle of existence.

Provincia Aegypti, 30 B.C. – 641 A.D.

In the shimmering haze of history, where the grandeur of Rome met the mysticism of Egypt, a civilisation flourished at the crossroads of two worlds. This was Roman Egypt—a land where emperors ruled from afar, yet the old gods still whispered along the banks of the Nile.

It was an age of dazzling contrasts. Marble-clad temples dedicated to Jupiter stood beside ancient sanctuaries of Isis, where priests murmured prayers in a tongue older than the Pyramids. Alexandria, a jewel of learning and commerce, thrived under the watchful gaze of the great Pharos lighthouse, its library brimming with the knowledge of nations. Here, philosophers debated beneath colonnaded porticoes, traders haggled over silks and spices, and artisans, skilled in both Greek naturalism and Egyptian symbolism, crafted the vivid funerary portraits that would immortalise the ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

“The old beliefs did not die beneath the weight of empire, but instead wound their way through Roman customs like ivy through a marble arch.”

Isidora lived—and died—within this world of splendid duality. Born into a society where Egyptian tradition intertwined with Roman sophistication, she would have walked streets paved by conquest, where the scent of incense mingled with the salt air drifting from the Great Harbour. She may have worn linen robes of Egyptian weave, fastened with the golden brooch of a Roman matron. Her prayers might have been offered to both Isis, the mother of mysteries, and Fortuna, goddess of fate.

In life, her reflection may have graced polished bronze mirrors, her kohl-lined eyes studying their own likeness before she stepped into the sunlight of a city alive with voices in Greek, Latin, and Demotic. In death, she was adorned as she had been in life—gold at her ears, pearls at her throat—her likeness preserved in encaustic wax, her soul entrusted to the journey beyond.

Egypt’s Importance to Rome

After Augustus conquered Egypt in 30 B.C., it became a personal possession of the emperor, its wealth funnelled directly into the empire’s treasury. Roman emperors jealously guarded the province, recognising that whoever controlled Egypt controlled the lifeblood of Rome itself.

From the grain that fed the mᴀsses to the perfumes, silks, and sacred symbols that adorned Roman temples and palaces, Egypt was far more than just a province—it was a bridge between East and West, ancient and imperial, a land whose riches and mysteries flowed endlessly into the heart of Rome. In short, Egypt was Rome’s gateway to the Indian Ocean trade, connecting the Roman Empire to Arabia, India, and even distant China. Using the monsoon winds, Roman merchants sailed from Egypt’s Red Sea ports—Myos Hormos and Berenike—returning with spices, silks, pearls, and exotic animals.

For all Rome’s power, Egypt remained a land of magic and myth. The old beliefs did not die beneath the weight of empire but instead wound their way through Roman customs like ivy through a marble arch. To the Egyptians, death was not an end, but a pᴀssage. And so, wrapped in a shroud of crimson—the colour of life and rebirth—Isidora was placed to rest, her painted gaze fixed upon eternity.

The years pᴀssed, and empires crumbled, but still, she looks out. Across centuries, across the dust of ages, her portrait remains—silent, steadfast, and hauntingly alive.