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Visitors to the site of Pompeii, the ancient Roman town buried (and so preserved for thousands of years) by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79AD, don't often think to look beyond the city walls. And it's easy to understand why: there's plenty on offer within this monumentally well-preserved town, from jewel-like wall paintings of myths and legends like Helen of Troy, to the majestic amphitheater and sumptuously stuccoed baths.

But step outside the gates for a moment, and you're in a very different—yet no less important—world.

For the ancient Romans, the roads and paths leading into and out of cities were crucial: not just for getting places, but as a very real kind of "memory lane." Tombs lined these ancient byways—some simply bearing inscriptions to the memories of loved ones lost, others more grand, accommodating space for friends and family to feast in remembrance of the dead.

Some of the tombs even address the passerby directly, as if its occupant could speak again, and pass on what they've learned. Take one Pompeiian example, set up by the freedman , which opens with ineffable politeness: "Stranger, wait a while if it's no trouble, and learn what not to do."

Going into Pompeii, and leaving it, was about being reminded of ways of living and ways of dying—as well as an invitation to tip your hat to those who trod the path before you, and to learn from their example.

Which is why the of a monumental tomb crowned by life-size sculptures of a woman and man, just outside the gates on the east side of the town, isn't just a fascinating find in and of itself. It's also a reminder to stop, and to remember the people who once lived and died in this bustling Italian town.

The tomb's main feature is a large wall, peppered with niches where cremated remains would have been placed, and surmounted by the astonishing relief sculpture of the woman and man. They're standing side by side, but not touching.

I rather like that she's slightly taller than him, standing at 1.77m, while he's 1.75m. She's draped in a modest tunic, cloak and veil (symbols of Roman womanhood), and boasts a pronounced crescent-moon-shaped pendant at her neck called a , that (through the age-old link with lunar cycles) tells a story about female fertility and birth. He, meanwhile, is dressed in the quintessentially Roman toga that instantly identifies him as a proud male citizen of Rome.

Who do the statues depict?

The status quo in archaeology, when a woman and a man are presented next to each other in tombs and burials like this, has always been to assume that she's his wife. Yet here, there's an unmissable clue that there's more going on. That's because, in her right hand, she's holding a laurel branch—which was used by priestesses to waft the smoke of incense and herbs in religious rituals.

Priestesses, in the Roman world, held unusual levels of power for women—and that this woman might have been a priestess of the goddess Ceres (Roman equivalent of Demeter).

So this high-status priestess is shown alongside a man. The inclusion of the symbols of her status (as priestess) alongside his (as a togatus, or "toga-wearing man"), shows that she's there in her own right, as a contributing member of Pompeiian society. She might be his mother; she might even have been more important than him (which would explain why she's taller). Without an inscription, we don't know for sure. The point is: a woman doesn't have to be a wife to be standing next to a man.

What's fascinating is this isn't unique to Pompeii. In my new book, "," which looks at the women not of Rome but of Bronze age Greece, I've found that new discoveries in archaeology are overturning the assumptions that used to be made about a woman's place in society, and the value of their roles, all the time.

One fascinating example is a royal burial in Late Bronze Age Mycenae: a woman and a man who'd been buried together in the royal necropolis, around 1700 years before the eruption of Mount Vesuvius decimated Pompeii. As is typical, this woman was immediately labeled, by the archaeologists who uncovered her, as the man's wife. But then DNA analysis came into the picture.

As recently as 2008, both skeletons were sampled for DNA—and came up with the game-changing result that they were, in fact, brother and sister. She'd been buried here as a member of a royal family by birth, not by marriage, in other words. She was there on her own terms.

From golden Mycenae to the ash-blasted ruins of Pompeii, the remains from the ancient world are telling us a different story from the one we always thought. A woman didn't have to be a wife to make a difference.

So I think it's worth listening to the advice of our friend Publius. Let's look at the burials of the past, and learn.

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