Begin your acquaintance with Diocletian's Palace at its southern entrance — the Bronze Gate or, as the Romans used to call it, Porta Meridionalis. If you’re expecting grandeur, columns, dramatic statues — lower those expectations just a notch. This one is small. Plain. No ornament. No flanking towers flexing imperial muscle. In fact, compared to other gates, it feels almost… shy.

But that understated look hides a clever purpose, as the gate had a very specific job. It opened straight to the sea and doubled as an emergency exit if trouble came from the land. Practical. Efficient. Very Roman. In the Middle Ages, it even picked up the nickname “the security gate,” which sounds far less glamorous but wonderfully pragmatic.

Back in Diocletian’s day, there was no sunny promenade outside, no cafés, no strolling crowds. The sea reached right up to the southern wall. Imagine waves brushing the stones. The emperor could sail in and step directly into his residence — no traffic, no ceremony, just a smooth imperial arrival. Not a bad commute for a retired ruler...

Today, things look very different. The Riva promenade stretches along the waterfront, and the Bronze Gate has become the palace’s busiest entrance. It now channels visitors from the seafront straight toward the Cathedral, and many guided — or self-guided — tours begin right here. What was once a discreet imperial entry is now the people’s gateway.

And here’s a detail worth noting: Diocletian’s private apartments occupied the southern half of the complex. Naturally, that meant the southern side — below the east–west decumanus street — was the more luxurious zone. Proximity to the sea meant better views, cooler air, and a touch of quiet exclusivity. Indeed, even in retirement, the emperor knew exactly where the premium real estate was.

Hidden just beneath Diocletian’s lavish imperial apartments lies a labyrinth few emperors could boast about: the mighty Podrum, or cellars. Built in the 4th century to mirror and support the grand halls above, these vaulted chambers span about one-eighth of the entire palace, and to this day, you can still see the remnants of a large wine and olive press used in Roman times. And yes, there was even a small nymphaeum: a shrine to the nymphs said to guard the precious fresh water flowing through the palace.

As centuries rolled on and Split grew, the palace transformed from an emperor’s retirement retreat into a refuge. When Salona fell in the 7th century, refugees found shelter within its sturdy walls. Over time, residents above broke through vaults to build basements or storerooms—early medieval real-estate hacks, you might call them.

In modern times, Podrum’s fame soared thanks to its role in “Game of Thrones.” Fans will instantly recognize the cellars as the location where Daenerys Targaryen kept her dragons chained in Meereen. These scenes were filmed in the central halls, turning ancient stone into television legend.

Today, you enter this underground world either through the Bronze Gate on the Riva or a staircase from the Peristyle. The western part has been carefully preserved and opened to the public in 1959, used for exhibitions, artisan fairs, and occasional concerts under soaring arches. The eastern section (which collapsed in medieval times) is now mostly restored and accessible since the 1990s.

Walking through these cool, echoing halls, you’re literally walking in the footsteps—and stone foundations—of emperors, traders, refugees, and storytellers. Here, the past thrives beneath your feet, merging Roman ambition with modern fascination, one vaulted chamber after another.

Call it a palace if you like, but Diocletian’s masterpiece is really part imperial retirement villa, part military fortress, and part living city. Built at the end of the third century AD for the Roman emperor who gave up power in favor of peace (and yes, cabbages), it’s a place where stone walls once sheltered soldiers, emperors, monks—and today, generations of Split’s residents.

Perched on a peninsula near Salona—then Dalmatia’s Roman capital and Diocletian’s birthplace—the palace originally served as a seaside sanctuary for the emperor’s final years. When he died in 312, the complex remained under Roman control and occasionally offered refuge to members of the imperial family who needed to lay low.

In the 7th century, when Slavic and Avar invaders destroyed Salona, survivors escaped behind these formidable walls, founding a new settlement right inside the palace. And here’s the surprise—they never left. Today, Split’s Old Town literally lives within those ancient foundations: temples transformed into churches, courtyards became vibrant squares, and homes sprang up between columns.

Later transformations added layers of history. The emperor’s mausoleum was converted into what is now recognized as the world’s oldest Catholic cathedral still in use in its original structure—the Cathedral of Domnius. In the 18th century, Scottish architect Robert Adam studied the palace ruins and helped inspire the elegance of Neoclassical architecture across Europe.

The palace’s layout originally formed an irregular rectangle, once fortified by 16 defensive towers. Its southern façade opened directly to the sea, with ships docking at what is still known as the Sea Gate. Three other gates connected the city walls to external routes: the Golden Gate to the north, leading toward Salona; the Silver Gate to the east, facing Stobreč; and the Iron Gate on the west, reserved for military access.

Indeed, there are few places like this, where centuries layer so vividly in stone—Roman ambition, medieval resilience, and Venetian finesse all mingle beneath your footsteps...

In 305 AD, Emperor Diocletian, known for his brutal persecution of Christians, retired to sunny Dalmatia to cultivate cabbages and built himself a magnificent mausoleum at the heart of his new palace. A few centuries later, that same mausoleum was transformed into a cathedral dedicated to one of the very martyrs he had executed. What a dramatic irony of history...

The structure we see today was expertly crafted from white marble, limestone, and brick around the late third century. By the seventh century, refugees from destroyed Salona, who settled in the palace walls, consecrated it as a Christian church dedicated to the Virgin Mary. A choir was later added, and by the 12th century, the elegant bell tower honoring Bishop Domnius rose above the ancient stone.

Saint Domnius himself was the Bishop of Salona, born in Antioch and beheaded in 304 alongside other Christians, ironically dying just a year before Diocletian abdicated. Today, this cathedral is still in use within its original structure, making it the oldest Catholic cathedral in the world still used in its primary form.

As you approach the cathedral, you’ll walk along the same main north-south and east-west streets that guided pilgrims through the palace centuries ago. At their crossing lies the Peristyle, a grand courtyard that serves as the main entrance to the cathedral.

Cross the threshold, and you’re stepping into over 1,700 years of layered history: from an emperor’s resting place to a medieval choir loft, through the Romanesque tower, and into a treasury. The latter is filled with numerous masterpieces such as the 13th-century Madonna and Child panel, intricately crafted reliquaries, ceremonial chalices, and manuscripts spanning from the 6th to the 19th centuries.

It is fair to say that nowhere else do imperial power, medieval devotion, and contemporary faith converge so elegantly, especially when viewed through the lens of fate’s own historical twist...

Just outside Split’s ancient Golden Gate stands a figure as bold in bronze as he once was in life. Meet Grgur Ninski (or Gregory of Nin): the 10th-century bishop whose raised hand still seems to call for change—and whose famously polished big toe might just bring you luck.

In 926 AD, Bishop Gregory did the unthinkable for his time: he began preaching and conducting services in Croatian rather than Latin. This wasn’t just a liturgical choice; it was an act of defiance against church tradition and Rome’s authority. For ordinary people across Dalmatia who spoke no Latin, it meant finally hearing prayers and sermons in words they understood. Over time, Grgur became more than a bishop—he became a national symbol of cultural identity and the right to speak one’s own language.

The statue you see today is the work of renowned Croatian sculptor Ivan Meštrović, completed in 1929. Towering at nearly 28 feet, Grgur’s figure is dramatic and commanding, his finger pointing skyward as if frozen mid-sermon. Originally, this monumental piece stood within the walls of Diocletian’s Palace. But during World War II, occupying Italian forces removed it. In 1954, it found its new and permanent home near the Golden Gate, where it welcomes both locals and travelers.

Did you know? Almost everything about the statue is dark bronze, except that famous toe. Generations of locals, travelers, and pilgrims have polished it to a golden gleam, each hoping for a wish to come true or a bit of luck to take home.

So when you visit, don’t just snap a photo. Pause, look up at Gregory’s determined gaze, and give that big toe a gentle rub. Because in Split, a little faith and a bit of bronze can still work wonders.

Now, imagine Emperor Diocletian, who has officially clocked out of ruling the Roman Empire—so, no more edicts, no rebellions—sailing home to his seaside villa. The word “villa”, however, might be an understatement for a fortress with a sea view...

He steps ashore, dusts off his toga, and walks straight through one of the four entrances to what is now the Old Town of Split, though in Diocletian’s day it was simply his palace. The Romans, being Romans, built it as the so-called "propugnaculum"—the double doors for defensive purposes.

Today, we call it the Golden Gate. Back then, it was known as Porta Septemtrionalis, or the Northern Gate. In the Middle Ages, it became the Roman Gate. The name “Golden Gate” didn’t appear until 1553. Same structure, different branding. History loves to rebrand...

Take a closer look at the façade, and you’ll spot niches designed for statues of the ruling power squad: the four Tetrarchs. That’s Diocletian himself, alongside his imperial colleagues, namely Maximian, Galerius, and Constantius Chlorus—the men who split the empire into manageable pieces and hoped it would behave. Above the outer section of the gate, the small 6th-century Church of Saint Martin quietly perches, as if keeping watch over centuries of comings and goings.

Ironically, most modern visitors enter from the sea, through the southern or eastern gates. The Golden Gate—the grand, ceremonial main entrance—doesn’t always get the spotlight it was built for. But step outside, and you can’t miss the towering 28-foot statue of Saint Gregory of Nin, standing guard just beyond the gate. Bronze, bold, and impossible to ignore.

So, whenever you pass through, just imagine the emperor himself doing the same—retired, powerful, and very pleased with his new address...

High above the Golden Gate of Diocletian's Palace—in what used to be a narrow guard corridor—you’ll find one of Split’s smallest and most surprising sanctuaries: the Church of Saint Martin. Blink, and you might miss it. Step inside, and you’re suddenly standing in a space no larger than a hallway, transformed into a chapel sometime in the 6th century, when waves of refugees sought shelter within the palace walls. A guard post turned into a house of prayer—history does love a plot twist...

Today, the church is cared for by Dominican sisters, and for a small fee, you can squeeze in to admire its quiet treasures. The highlight is an 11th-century marble chancel screen, delicately carved with grapevines and griffins—symbols of life, faith, and perhaps a touch of medieval flair. The main altar dates back to the 9th century, proving that even the tiniest spaces can hold a very long history...

Saint Martin’s wasn’t alone up there. Similar little churches once crowned the Silver, Iron, and Bronze Gates. Where Roman niches once displayed statues of imperial tetrarchs, later generations installed saints instead—Saint Theodore guarding the West Gate, Saint Apollinaris the East, and Saint Julian the South. Empires fade; saints move in.

And then there’s the mystery. In 1929, a stone tablet was discovered in a sealed window. It read: “The unworthy servant, priest Dominic…” A gravestone, perhaps? A humble signature? No remains were ever found, so the story lingers—half fact, half whisper.

Standing underneath the Golden Gate, don’t just look forward. Look up. Because sometimes the most remarkable chapter of a 1,700-year-old palace is hiding in a space barely wider than your outstretched arms.

Just a few steps from the Peristyle, in the western stretch of Diocletian's Palace, stands a compact but powerful survivor: the Temple of Jupiter. Built around the year 300 AD, it began as a shrine to Jupiter—Roman Zeus and, conveniently, Emperor Diocletian’s so-called “divine father.” Because when you rule the empire, it helps to keep the king of the gods in the family...

Out front, you’ll meet one of the twelve sphinxes Diocletian imported from Egypt. Yes, imported. Apparently, retirement plans included a touch of Nile-side décor. Above the entrance, reliefs line up like a mythological guest list: Victoria, Triton, Helios, Hercules, Apollo... Heroes, sea gods, sun gods—everyone showed up. Or almost everyone. Parts of the palace were still unfinished when the emperor returned rather suddenly after his abdication. Even divine sons, it seems, don’t always stick to the construction schedule...

Then history pivoted. In the sixth century, the pagan temple became a baptistery dedicated to Saint John the Baptist. The pagan gods stepped aside; the Christian saints stepped in. Inside, you’ll find the sarcophagi of early archbishops Ivan of Ravenna and Lovre, linking the space to Split’s Christian story. And Saint John himself appears in striking form—a large bronze statue, adding a bold 20th-century presence to a 4th-century shell.

Raise your gaze, and you’ll notice yet another layer: an 11th-century Romanesque bell tower rising above the vault. Pagan temple, Christian baptistery, medieval addition—this small structure carries centuries with surprising confidence.

And one final twist: in 1907, the surrounding houses that had grown tightly against its walls were cleared away, finally giving the temple room to breathe again. So, standing here, be aware—you’re not merely looking at ancient stone, you’re watching a building that has reinvented itself for more than 1,700 years, without ever losing its sense of drama...

On the western side of Diocletian’s Palace stands the West Gate—better known as the Iron Gate—one of the four original entrances into the emperor’s fortified retirement dream. Today, it opens straight into the lively fabric of Split, where the palace walls blend seamlessly with People’s Square. Around you rise the old City Hall, the clock tower, and a lineup of aristocratic residences—the Nakić, Karepić, Cambi, and Cipriani palaces—proof that prime real estate has always been in demand...

But don’t let the cafés and chatter distract you. The Iron Gate still carries traces of its defensive past. Look closely, and you’ll notice the ancient rampart and what was once a double-door security chamber—an early version of “authorized personnel only.” Above the passage sits the Church of Our Lady of the Bell Tower, a narrow, almost hidden sacred space tucked into the thickness of the walls. Like the chapels above the other gates, it makes impressive use of very limited square footage. In the 11th century, a bell tower was added, giving the structure a new vertical accent and a fresh medieval identity layered onto its Roman bones.

And here’s a detail many pass by without noticing: on the northern wall of the rampart, behind what was once a sealed medieval niche, a sculpture was discovered—hands holding a crown. Carefully restored and returned to its original position, it now quietly watches over the gate once more.

So, as you step through the Iron Gate, remember—while entering this square, you’re crossing a threshold guarded by emperors, nobles, and a pair of stone hands still holding on to their crown...

The Church of Our Lady of the Bell Tower (Gospa od Zvonika) has a long and fascinating history. Its origins can be traced back to the 6th century when it was constructed on the sentries' walkway above the Iron Gate of Diocletian's Palace. Initially, it was dedicated to Saint Theodore. Later, in the 11th century, an Early Romanesque bell tower was added, making it the oldest preserved bell tower on the Croatian side of the Adriatic.

Notable remnants from this era include fragments of a chancel screen with an inscription mentioning the city's benefactor, Firminus, along with his first and second wives, Magi and Brita, who made significant contributions to the church. The church received its current name in the 13th century after the installation of the icon of Our Lady of the Bell Tower, which is now safeguarded in the treasury of Split Cathedral.

To reach the church, a steep external staircase was constructed, which was historically climbed by the women of Split. They ascended the stairs to make vows before the church, seeking protection during childbirth.

Adjacent to the Iron Gate and facing the square (Pjaca), a Romanesque tower was built. Later, in the 16th century, a Renaissance municipal clock was installed in this tower, adding a touch of modernity to the ancient structure. The church and its surrounding elements stand as a testament to the rich historical and architectural heritage of the region.

Tip:
Rather than looking at the tower alone, you can enjoy the view from the Narodni (People's) Square side with the Iron Gate and the Clock Tower.
Go inside for the mural with Christ behind the altar, which is very interesting for its originality, different from many in the world.

Though everyone calls it People’s Square, its original name was Saint Lawrence’s Square, dating all the way back to the 13th century. What makes this place special is that it was the very first part of Split where folks dared to live outside the safety of Diocletian’s Palace walls, marking the city’s slow but steady expansion beyond the emperor’s ancient fortress.

Life here never stops. The city clock overlooking the square has 24 numerals instead of the usual 12, reminding everyone that in People’s Square, time flows on its own unique rhythm. This is where locals and visitors alike gather to rest, eat, drink, meet friends, and simply soak up the city’s lively atmosphere. Connected directly to the Peristyle of the old palace, the square blends the ancient with the everyday.

Surrounding the square, architecture tells its own story—Renaissance grace, Venetian elegance, and Gothic charm all line the streets. Dominating the north side is the Old Town Hall, a 15th-century building that today hosts art and history exhibitions. Legend has it that every building in Split holds a secret or a tale, and here those stories feel alive.

Among the gems you’ll discover in the square are the ornate palaces of former nobility, the Church of Our Lady of the Bell Tower, the Old Town Clock, the charming Old Town Café, and the historic Morpurgo Bookstore, welcoming readers since 1860.

At the base of the square’s flagpole, a quote from local poet Tonći Petrasov reads:
"One doesn’t need to travel anywhere,
nor does one have to search elsewhere,
what you are looking for is precisely here."

In People’s Square, those words ring true. This is where Split’s past and present meet, where stories are shared, and where the city’s spirit pulses strongest.

Officially, it’s called Radić Brothers Square, named after Stjepan and Ante Radić, founders of the Croatian Peasant Party back in 1904, known for bravely standing up to political dominance from Belgrade. They paid dearly for their cause, but their legacy still echoes here.

And yet, ask anyone in Split, and they’ll just say “Fruit’s Square.” Why? Because for centuries, this charming corner of the Old Town was the place to haggle over baskets of figs, peaches, and sun-warmed grapes. Even today, the name sticks—proof that old habits, like old nicknames, die hard.

The square itself is small but rich in character. Most striking is the 15th-century Venetian Tower, an octagonal relic from Split’s medieval fortifications that once watched over traders and townsfolk alike. Directly opposite stands the grand Baroque palace of the noble Milesi family, its bold 17th-century façade often hailed as Croatia’s finest piece of Baroque architecture.

Guarding the square is the dignified statue of Marko Marulić, the 15th-century writer and philosopher, celebrated as the father of Croatian literature. And as you wander across worn stone paving, remember: each slab here has seen centuries of whispered gossip, heated debates, and maybe the occasional squashed fig...

Fruit’s Square may be small, but it offers a perfect slice of Split’s layered past, where stone towers, Baroque elegance, and a stubborn old nickname all come together in one sunny corner of the city.