What have Historians enchanted by Roman Britain ever bequeathed to us?

What have historians enchanted by the study of Romano-British

history ever bequeathed to us?
And why have they been enchanted?
I suppose it could be the Stockholm Syndrome,
The affection felt by the captive for the captor sort of thing,
Or perhaps we should call it the St Albans Syndrome,

Or the Verulamium Syndrome …
But there’s so much more, I know,

(Or is there?)

Deference, perhaps, or ‘Borrowed status’,
As the sociologists put it,

The cult of the classics in grammar schools,
The dominance of the English public school;
The cult of the nineteenth century amateur,
Antiquarian and archaeologist,
Often a country curate;

The simultaneous growth of the British Empire,
Parallels drawn with Pax Romana,
And the civilizing mission
Of ‘The White Man’s Burden’;
The tantalizing nature of the evidence
Of the Romano-British centuries:
Tangible yet numinous;

Chance finds as the country was industrialised,
New roads, new footings, foundations and factories,
Those rural curates on new railway lines,
The Ozymandian nature of it all:
‘Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair.’
The M.R. James winter ghost story trope,
The feeling that those twilight Celtic gods
Lie just beyond the veil of imagination.
The way that the history fitted in
With a British jigsaw of stereotypes:
England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland,

What have historians enchanted by the study of Romano-British

history ever bequeathed to us?
And why have they been enchanted?
I suppose it could be the Stockholm Syndrome,
The affection felt by the captive for the captor sort of thing,
Or perhaps we should call it the St Albans Syndrome,

Or the Verulamium Syndrome …
But there’s so much more, I know,

(Or is there?)

Deference, perhaps, or ‘Borrowed status’,
As the sociologists put it,

The cult of the classics in grammar schools,
The dominance of the English public school;
The cult of the nineteenth century amateur,
Antiquarian and archaeologist,
Often a country curate;

The simultaneous growth of the British Empire,
Parallels drawn with Pax Romana,
And the civilizing mission
Of ‘The White Man’s Burden’;
The tantalizing nature of the evidence
Of the Romano-British centuries:
Tangible yet numinous;

Chance finds as the country was industrialised,
New roads, new footings, foundations and factories,
Those rural curates on new railway lines,
The Ozymandian nature of it all:
‘Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair.’
The M.R. James winter ghost story trope,
The feeling that those twilight Celtic gods
Lie just beyond the veil of imagination.
The way that the history fitted in
With a British jigsaw of stereotypes:
England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland,

Some more civilized than the Celtic others.
The serendipitous way chance finds
Both pleased the Church of England,
And the new school of Social Darwinists;
The way the lauding of Roman civilization
Elided bestial bloodshed;
Slavery; hedonistic sexuality;
The way the contemporary class structure
Was equated with the Roman Conquest:
Vulgar plebs and cultured patricians;
Uncouth Britons, barbaric Celts,
A dangerous working class,

An English ruling class that knew its Classics,
And knew how to educate the masses;
And an exception that glorified the rule:
The Westminster statue of Boudicca,
Queen Victoria in all but name,
And more Roman than Briton or Iceni,
For every age rewrites history,
Particularly when the sun
Never set on the British Empire.
UNROMAN BRITAIN
And so,

What have historians enchanted by the study of Romano-British

history ever bequeathed to us?
And why have they been enchanted?

Black People here before the English
He, an Egyptian, an auxiliary;
She, secret- keeper for the Dobunni,
Had arranged to meet by the sacred oak,
Sheltered and hidden from keen Roman eyes
By dense, dark woods of smooth barked beech.
He, a skilled boatman from the River Nile,

And now, deserter from the garrison
At Kingsholm; beaten, whipped, lashed and abused

By officers for drunken amusement,
Found silent sympathy, trust and love
From this mute young woman at the wine shop;
She, like him, violated just for fun
And entertainment – forced to play the fool,
Was also a skilled, rehearsed dissembler,
For inside that apparently dumbstruck
Mind was mysterious Druidic lore,
Hidden safe within a tribal dreamscape.
She, beyond Roman suspicion and law,
Led him by the hand, as the red sun’s rays
Sank behind the high shrine to Mercury;
She, night-navigator of marshland paths,
She, sure-footed through the night-rustling forest;
They, sheltered and sleeping through the daylight hours,
They, slipping unseen past messenger posts,
Up the eastern scarp, then down to the river.
He, Nile-native, expert boatman, stared west
Across the Severn to the Silures –
Their boat eased its way with gentle paddle
Across that broad swathe of dangerous water,
Until exhausted, they breathed freedom.
Three centuries later, loyal-subjects,
Their children’s lineage, dark-skinned Britons,
Were destined to fight for Rome and Glevum
Against Anglo-Saxon invading migrants,
Who steadily renamed the landscape –

But that’s another story.

Woodchester Roman Villa

Per Ardua ad Furniture

The Paris Situationists might have cried:
‘Underneath the pavements, the beach!’,
But the Radical Stroud Situationists
See the pavements rather differently:
‘Underneath the furniture shop floor,

Not just Glevum’s Roman wall,
But also the bastion tower!’

When you walk past the Gloucester Furniture Exhibition Centre,
At the junction of Parliament and Southgate Streets,
Pluck up the courage to ask permission for a viewing,
Or even better, spend some money there,
And remember that, ‘All roads lead to Rome!’
For some nine feet down below ground level,
Beneath the medieval rebuild,
Lies the structure that stretched from the wall
Now displayed outside Boots on Eastgate Street:

Part of the Roman Colonia wall,
From circa AD 97.

It’s a shame that Boots isn’t named Sandals,
But, on the other hand, altera parte,
Perhaps our cry might be,
‘Underneath our Boots, the wall!’
‘Underneath the drawing room furniture,

The drawbridge!’