Trans. Bristol & Gloucestershire Archaeological Society 130 (2012), 13–30

Visions of Rome in 4th-century Gloucestershire1

By henry hurst

Presidential Address delivered at Highnam Community Centre, 31 March 2012

What sort of a vision of Rome do we get from 4th-century Gloucestershire? What are the strands which make up the familiar, but quite elaborate ‘later Roman’ culture of the region? A stimulus to address these questions is given by two publications of 2010: the fine fourth volume of theRoman mosaics of Britain by Stephen Cosh and David Neal, which covers our region; and Peter Stewart’s ‘Geographies of Provincialism in Roman Sculpture’, which gives new insights into the sculpture produced in the Cotswold area (Fig. 1; Stewart 2010). My attempt to give an answer will focus on the top end of society since this had the resources to display material culture in the most ambitious way, and I intend to look especially at the county’s grandest residence, the villa at Woodchester, but also at other material. I will argue that Roman culture was made in this region and that this came about through the projection of ideas rather than direct contact with Rome. (For the Roman period generally in Gloucestershire and the Bristol area reference may be made to an excellent review of recent evidence by Holbrook (2006), which I have used in the present study. ) However, even to pose this question and to answer it along the lines proposed is out of line with current thinking by some British archaeologists. ‘By concentrating on “Roman” monuments, classical archaeologists have effectively used Roman culture within a Eurocentric discourse. Gentleman scholars, military officers, imperial officials and academics felt a natural association with the achievements of the Roman ruling classes ... and this attitude has been projected onto the contemporary world to affect both the archaeological approaches that we have inherited and the information that we have available ....’ says Hingley (2005, 92; see also Hingley 2000). Particularly objectionable to those who would describe their approach to Roman Britain as ‘postcolonial’ would probably be the idea of ‘Roman’ culture, with or without inverted commas, being constructed in Gloucestershire, as opposed to something defined more locally. The idea of ‘making’ Roman culture also differs from a widely-held view of Romanization, when this is taken to mean the imposition or reception of Roman culture as more of a finished product. According to Gardner (2007): ‘[Romanization] tended to fix the ideas of native and Roman, it perpetuated a sense of the superiority of Roman civilization ... there was little room for multiple perspectives on identity ... It is only with the introduction of post-colonial critiques in the 1990s that the essentialism of these identity categories [Roman and native] has really been attacked.’ (Gardner 2007, 27). Mattingly also rejects ‘the Romanisation paradigm’: ‘Instead I advocate an

1. I would like to express my appreciation to the Society for the honour of the presidency. For this paper I would like to thank: Dr. Lacey Wallace and the Imaging Services staff at Cambridge University Library for their help with the preparation of illustrations; the authors or their representatives mentioned in the figure captions for allowing the reproduction of images; and Prof. Martin Millett for kindly reading a draft of this text and making helpful suggestions; the faults remain my own.

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Fig. 1 Finds of Roman sculpture in Gloucestershire and the neighbouring areas (as Stewart 2010, Map 4, with permission; from 90m Digital Elevation Model: CIAT http://srtm.csi.cgiar.org).

approach based on the concept of “discrepant identity”...“Being Roman” meant different things to different social groupings and produced varied practical manifestations. This translated into different patterns of behaviour, not simply varied acceptance of elements of Roman culture.’ (Mattingly 2008, 53; see also Mattingly 1997; 2006, 17–19, 520–28). Without wishing to add to the many discussions of Romanization, it must be acknowledged that it is a difficult term partly because it has undergone a shift in meaning from its first prominent use in Haverfield’s The Romanization of Roman Britain (1905; 1923). There it referred to the acceptance and adaptation of Roman culture by native communities, but later, as in Frere’s Britannia (1967), it came to be seen more as an instrument of colonization, with the Roman army acting as a main agent. Hingley, Gardner and Mattingly can be seen as reacting especially to this later usage. But it is not necessary to think in this way. While not denying the coercive basis of the Roman empire, Millett’s Romanization of Britain (1990) and Woolf’s Becoming Roman, on Gaul (1997; cf. Trow et al. 2009), make native communities the prime movers, with their elites exercising a choice over how Roman to become and the pattern of native society influencing how Roman a community might become. The idea of ‘making’ Roman culture fits with this. In his Presidential address to the Society in 1994, Keith Branigan argued against some of the new ‘post-colonial’ thinking as it had then developed (Branigan 1994). Some of its more punchy expressions can provoke grumpy-old-person responses in those brought up on Britannia, but it has also been stimulating – for example, the focus on multiple identities has reinvigorated the study of artefacts of daily life and dress – and there are touches of humour, like Millett, who identified himself as part of the postcolonial generation (1990, xv), being viewed as the ‘most sophisticated’

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spokesman of the ancien régime (Gardiner 2007, 27). However, the way ‘discrepant experience’ is used to account for difference while not addressing similarity is a serious flaw. Why are similar architecture and planning, similarly-built masonry walls covered in similar painted plaster, mosaic floors, red shiny pottery and coins found in places as far apart as Gloucester, Knidos in Turkey, Carthage in Tunisia and Rome (to give my own excavating experience)? Why in 4th-century Gloucestershire, as in most of Roman Britain, do things have a tendency to become more ‘Roman’ as time goes on? For example, masonry ‘villa’ buildings appear for the first time at Frocester Court (Fig. 2; Price 2000) and Barnsley Park (Webster 1981; summary plans in Holbrook 2006, fig. 2) in the late 3rd century, and baths were added to both during the 4th century. Yet both sites had long previous histories: so far from ‘discrepancy’, there seems to be convergence from different starting points. This gives encouragement to think in a different way, and so to pursue the idea of ‘making’ Roman culture. The 4th-century residence at Woodchester (Fig. 3) has sometimes been compared under the heading of ‘palatial villas’ with the much earlier site of Fishbourne near Chichester (for Woodchester generally, Clarke 1982, referring back to the late 18th-century discoveries of Samuel Lysons; Cunliffe 1971 and 1998 for Fishbourne). Clarke makes the comparison on grounds of grandeur and axial planning, drawing attention also to the possibility of a late 1st/ early 2nd century phase at Woodchester marked by the use of internal wall facing in cut pieces of coloured marble (opus sectile) such as is also found at Fishbourne (Clarke 1982, 210–11). As Clarke shows beyond doubt, Woodchester had a sequence of development before reaching its greatest extent in the 4th century. However, if we compare it at that stage with Fishbourne, more striking than any similarities are the different ways in which the two buildings expressed a Roman identity. Fishbourne drew inspiration from the imperial palace in Rome.* It can be compared with the ‘public’ part of the Domus Augustiana (or Flavia) built under Domitian, since both had in common an axially laid out plan of a grand entrance hall leading to a colonnaded court containing water features at the end of which was an apsidal-ended dining hall (often referred to as the ‘audience chamber’ at Fishbourne). (*Russell 2006, 117–33, makes the comparison, but tries to reverse the dating provided by the excavated evidence, in which Fishbourne appears to be slightly earlier than the Domus Flavia; both buildings could have had a common prototype in an earlier phase of the imperial palace). As mentioned, Fishbourne had internal wall facing in opus sectile, like the imperial palace and other grand Roman buildings of the Mediterranean area; both the marbles and probably the craftsmen were imported from Italy. Its early black-and-white mosaics were like contemporary mosaics at Ostia, with the same implication about craftsmen. So, whoever Fishbourne’s owner was – the client king Togidubnus or another – the model for his house was the imperial palace in Rome and craftsmen from Italy were the means of realising his desire. One could say that this was borrowed rather than ‘made’ Roman culture. At 4th-century Woodchester, by contrast, a much more original process of making took place, which we can explore in several aspects. Starting with its plan, Clarke is surely right in seeking Romano-British comparisons (1982, 219–20). The villa as so far known is arranged around three courtyards: the innermost or most northerly of these seems to have been the residential nucleus; the central court was flanked toE and W by two probable aisled buildings; only parts were found of the buildings in the outer court. Aisled buildings have varying characteristics and have accordingly been interpreted in different ways, as between agricultural and storage functions, residences and communal reception and meeting spaces (Perring 2002, 53–55, with citations; Wallace, forthcoming), so that it is useful first to refer to Clarke’s judicious account of these two structures (1982, 203–4). We know little in detail about the W structure, except that Lysons recorded a statuette fragment of Cupid and Psyche and column fragments as being found near its entrance. The E structure showed a sequence of development, including buttressing on its external E side.

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Fig. 2 ‘Site 1’ at Frocester, showing: above, the Iron Age farm layout in its last stage (2nd/3rd century AD); below, the 270s rebuild as a masonry Roman-villa-style building set within a walled court. From Price 2000, figs. 4.18 and 5.1, with permission.

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Fig. 3 Plans of Woodchester (after Clarke 1982, fig. 1), Montmaurin (after Fouet 1969, fig. 23) and Piazza Armerina (after Wilson 1983, fig. 1) at the same scale.

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It had an entrance 2.5 m wide, as Clarke says (1982, 203), sufficient to admit animals and carts, but had what Lysons thought was a baths suite at its N end, while the long room (Clarke’s Room 42) on its E side produced a leg from a white marble statue; its interpretation was consequently disputed as between agricultural and residential. Re-excavation is evidently needed, but whichever interpretation might apply, including the further alternative of a communal reception space, would not overturn Woodchester’s placing in a class of courtyard villas with a predominantly residential inner courtyard and structures outside relating to farming and separate residential or, we might add, social needs. Chedworth and probably Turkdean (Holbrook 2006, 103–06, fig. 3) are two other Gloucestershire examples of this well-known class. Woodchester is evidently a grander house than them and shows greater elaboration in the additional division between the aisled buildings and the structures in the outer courtyard. But, however the aisled buildings are interpreted, the many comparable buildings in villa- or countryside settings in Roman Britain seem to underline the regional and British identity of the villa’s plan. A useful comparison can be made with the villa at Montmaurin in SW France, both for similarities and differences. In its 4th-century state Montmaurin also had three courtyards in line (Fig. 3; Fouet 1969; Wilson 1983, 81–83, fig. 51) and, like Woodchester, it had developed over some time; also like Woodchester its phasing is unfortunately only partly understood. In a recent typological study of Roman villas in the provinces of Gaul and Germany (Ferdière et al. 2010), Montmaurin was placed in the large courtyard category, with the residence at the head of a complex including agricultural and lesser residential buildings, as would also be true of Woodchester. In that typology the planning ancestry of villas with multiple aligned pavillons (houses and/or wings) is traced back to the enclosures of Gallic Iron Age farmsteads, as is also evident in Britain: Neal’s excavation at Gorhambury, St Albans, for example, documents the same ancestry very well (Neal et al. 1990). The differences lie mainly in aspects of the design. The main residential nucleus at Montmaurin seems to have been around the central court, itself fronted by a grand semicircular colonnaded forecourt. The much smaller innermost courtyard, which was probably added in the 4th century, is probably to be understood as an elaborate dining suite, with a (partly open) dining area at the head of a courtyard flanked by two smaller semi-circular colonnaded spaces, possibly the settings for stibadia, or semicircular dining couches. Woodchester (so far) does not have anything comparable to this. Also unlike Woodchester all three of the Montmaurin courts were laid out around a single axial line, suggesting unified planning. Ancillary rooms were in a further enclosure to the W. Overall, however, Woodchester, no less than Montmaurin could be described as a regional estate-centre, taking a form developed to suit the circumstances of Gaul and Britain. In their evident connection with estate buildings, Woodchester and Montmaurin together differ from palatial Italian villas of the same time such as the Villa of Maxentius in the outskirts of Rome or Piazza Armerina in Sicily (Claridge 2010, 426–29, fig. 203; Wilson 1983). At Piazza Armerina, for example, there are also three courtyards – the entrance court, the main court and the oval courtyard with the three-apsed dining hall at its head (Fig. 3) – all of which, like the three at Montmaurin, enhance its impact as a residence and place of reception, but (on present knowledge) there are no closely-connected estate buildings. The Orpheus room at Woodchester is marked out by its position at the head of the main residential courtyard to be a principal reception space (Figs. 3–5). At 47/48 feet square (14.4– 14.9 m: Clarke 1982, n. 12), it is one of the largest ‘private’ rooms N of the Alps (by this is meant that it served an individual’s rather than a community’s use, even if its reception role made it not strictly private in a modern sense). Can it then be seen as less regional than the villa as a whole? The answer looks to be mixed. Large square or rectangular rooms, often but not always apsed, are found in comparable positions in late imperial villas throughout the empire, the large

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Fig. 4.

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(single-) apsed hall at Piazza Armerina being an example; for a possible British parallel, Witts (2000, 316–20) has noted that the Roman villa at Wellow, Somerset, discovered in the late 17th century, may have had a comparably-placed large room (though smaller than Woodchester) with an Orpheus mosaic. Internally the room had four internal columns of c. 0.6 m shaft diameter, set 3.5 m inside the walls (Fig. 5). The destroyed central part of the mosaic has been suggested to have been a fountain pool (Walters 1996, 153; Cosh and Neal 2010, 214–17). One aspect of the room which seems likely to have been misrepresented in recent plans (as Cosh and Neal 2010, fig. 224, following Clarke 1982, fig. 1) is that it had narrow entrances in each of its four sides.T his is a reconstruction based on Lysons 1817, pl. XXII (Fig. 4), which shows a single narrow entrance in the E side and a reconstructed matching one on the W side. The position of Orpheus on the mosaic floor,S of its centre and facing S, suggests that the principal entrance to the room would have been from the courtyard to its S; from parallels for grand rooms in this type of setting, it is likely that this was the only entrance. Subject to confirmation by excavation, Lysons’ narrow entrances, which are less than c. 1 m wide and thus improbable in a room with sides over 14 m long, are surely better understood as hypocaust openings in the wall below floor level. Thinking that these might be real entrances perhaps influenced Cosh and Neal in suggesting that the room might be seen as ‘a kind of peristyle’ (2010, 214). The room seems likely to have taken a basilical form, with a central taller part of the roof carried on the internal columns and lit by clerestorey lighting. It has been reconstructed with a domed and barrel-vaulted superstructure in order to make its architecture reflect the mosaic design (by Thompson in Walters 1996, fig. 13.4), but this seems too complicated, as well as putting too much of a structural load on the column bases and walls. The basilican form was familiar in Roman Britain, but in this case the setting and likely function also probably evoke a Mediterranean pedigree. Vitruvius, the Augustan writer on architecture, talks of an oecus Aegyptius (De Architectura VI, 3, 9), as a room with internal columns and a basilical roof arrangement, which was suitable for large-scale dining. Examples of different dates survive, such as in the House of the Mosaic Atrium at Herculaneum or Room 32 in the House of the Laberii (or House of Ikarios) from the Roman town of Oudna in Africa Proconsularis, which is probably late 2nd century (Fig. 6; Dunbabin 1978, 240–41). As to the floor (Figs. 4–5; Cosh andN eal 2010, 214–23: mosaic 456.1), irrespective of its artistic merit, the very existence of a mosaic in the principal room would probably give out a ‘regional’ signal to a visitor from the Mediterranean, since their expectation would be of a floor paved with imported marble expressing the owner’s access to valuable resources, as, for example, in the apsidal hall at Piazza Armerina (Fig. 7) or in the dining suite at Montmaurin. The imagery of Orpheus charming the animals, however, sends a more complex message. As Sarah Scott has discussed (1995; 2000, 131–43), this imagery is known on at least 80 mosaics from all over the Roman empire, including numerous examples from Britain. Orpheus – and Orphic song – can be seen as representing the refinement of Greek culture, which brings order to chaos – a somewhat feminized counterpart to the virtus or manly courage displayed in images of hunting. However, Cosh and Neal (2010, 10, following Henig) suggest that Orpheus in this area may have been related to the Cotswold Hunter god who, like Orpheus, wears a Phrygian cap (cf. Fig. 10, where, despite damage to the head, the outline of a cap of conical shape can be seen: Henig 1993, no. 110). In later imperial times much emphasis was placed upon Orpheus’s philosophical and spiritual powers and he can also be linked with Christianity. Villa owners, then, could use Orpheus imagery to assert that they were up with the intellectual and spiritual trends of the time. A key word is could: the imagery was rich in decorative content and evidently also fashionable, so that at our distance it is difficult to judge how much meaning to read into its use. Certainly the choice of such imagery would have been facilitated by the local availability of the craft skills to render in mosaic a range of

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Fig. 5 Lysons’ drawing of the central part of the Orpheus pavement at Woodchester (composite from Lysons 1817, pls. XXVI-XXVII; the two prints do not quite match at their junction).

Greco-Roman mythological themes. The Woodchester Orpheus floor is seen as a major work of D.J. Smith’s ‘Corinian’ school of mosaicists, closest in appearance to a floor found at Barton Farm, Cirencester, with other Orphic floors assigned to the Corinian school at Withington andN ewton St Loe in Somerset (Cosh and Neal 2010, 9, 214).

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Fig. 6 Plan of the House of the Laberii or of Ikarios, Oudna (as Gauckler 1896, pl. XX). The large rectangular room to the left of the courtyard (Room 32) has an internal colonnade with seven columns. The central part of its mosaic shows Dionysos, god of wine, and Ikarios, whom he taught the cultivation of the vine, surrounded by a vine-carpet.

An indication that the Corinian mosaicists had links beyond the region is given by the similarity of design between the pairs of square geometrical panels flanking the central panels on the four sides in the Woodchester Orpheus floor and a mosaicSE of the vestibule of the Constantinian ‘Basilika’ at Trier (Fig. 4; ‘Scheme C’ in Cosh and Neal 2010, 221–3; Parlasca 1959, 49–50, taf. 50). This raised the question of whether Trier or the Corinium area should be seen as the ‘home’ of this school of mosaicists. Smith (1983, 6–7) argued for the Corinium area having precedence, from the concentration of works with the same stylistic traits, but Dunbabin (1999, 94–5) saw Trier as the most likely origin of a craftsman/-men who came to work in the Cotswolds. The precise relationship does not matter, since either way the interprovincial use of these craft skills reminds us of another means of contact between Woodchester’s owners and the wider world.

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Fig. 7 types of flooring used in the E range at Piazza Armerina.

A final way in which Woodchester asserts wider associations is that seven of the eight pieces of decorative sculpture from it were of imported Mediterranean marble. Because of uncertainty over their discovery, context and date, these pieces may not belong with the 4th-century stage of the villa, but even so there is a contrast for example with Chedworth, which has only produced sculpture in local limestone. Most notable is a statuette of a draped female figure identifiable as the moon goddess Luna or Diana (the huntress and also a moon goddess), with the head of a bull (Fig. 8). The piece evokes, and perhaps is contemporary with, early 3rd-century images on the coins of Caracalla, of Luna standing in a chariot drawn by bulls. Other statuette pieces included a Cupid and Psyche, a pedestal with two nude male feet, possibly of Meleager as a huntsman, the

Fig. 8 statuette of Luna/Diana from Woodchester, 45 cms. high (courtesy British Museum).

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right leg of a possible male deity and the stepped base of a possible miniature shrine. There was also the crown of a possible female portrait head of mid- to late 3rd-century date. (Henig 1993, respectively nos. 4, 2, 6, 8, 13 and 10; see also Clarke 1982, 207–08) Combining all these elements gives us a finely nuanced picture of 4th-century Woodchester. Unlike the owner of 1st-century Fishbourne, its owner(s) show no direct awareness of Rome but are patrons of a constructed Roman culture made of the mix of locally-developed and imported elements described. This can be developed with three further examples. The villa at Chedworth (Fig. 9; Goodburn 1979) can be seen as an example of basically the same regional building type as Woodchester, drawing from Iron Age antecedents, and it also has lavish architectural detail and decoration. Its principal mosaic floor (Cosh andN eal 2010, 53–59: mosaic 418.2), which has been argued to be that of a winter dining room, has design characteristics of the Corinium Orpheus group according to D.J. Smith (1965, 105–11), and its figurative imagery offers a similar ambiguity of meaning to the Woodchester Orpheus floor. In it the four seasons are represented in the guise of Cupids and an inner band of panels shows Bacchus and Ariadne, his consort, and his thiasos or retinue of satyrs and maenads. Bacchus as the god of wine was obviously suitable for the floor of a dining room, but he was also the guardian of the dead and lord of salvation. Bacchus (/Dionysus) and the seasons were frequently associated in Classical art to symbolize the journey through life and the richness of life on earth. In Bacchus’ retinue satyrs – half beasts, half men – symbolised the wild part of male human nature and maenads – ecstatic females – the wild female part. As Scott (2000, 149) says, ‘educated diners would have been well aware of ... Bacchus’ links with salvation and the Seasons with the continuity of life.’ As for the Woodchester pavement, viewers would presumably resolve for themselves how far to take it as just a showy piece or read deeper meaning into it

Fig. 9 Reconstruction of Chedworth by Sheila Gibson, 1964 (as Ward-Perkins 1981, fig. 155, with permission).

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(Cosh and Neal 2010, 10–11, following Witts 1995, are for conviviality alone, but Witts perhaps underplays how much Bacchic ‘content’ there is in this floor). In this connection a fine Bacchus sculpture in white imported marble may be noted from another Gloucestershire villa, Spoonley Wood (Henig 1993, no. 1). This was so loved by its owner, or perhaps trusted as the bringer of salvation, that it was buried with him. As mentioned, Chedworth has so far only yielded locally-produced sculpture. The possible base of a Lar (household deity: Henig 1993, no. 43) and a votive relief of the Cotswold Hunter God (Fig. 10; Henig 1993, no. 110) are clearly from the villa, with a statue of Diana coming from the nearby temple and a hooded genius and three altars with warrior god reliefs (Lenus Mars) more loosely provenanced from Chedworth (Henig 1993, nos. 21, 99, 126–28). Our ability to understand these and other products of the Cotswold sculptors has been assisted by Stewart’s study referred to at the beginning (Stewart 2010). He defines ‘four different geographies of art which are in tension with each other’: distance from the centres of the Classical tradition; the ‘geography of sculpture-usage’; the impact of geology; and fourthly the ‘conceptual distance’ between Classical originals and their imitations. The Cotswolds as a sculptural area is out of line with the rest of southern Britain in that sculpture is more abundant and reaches down the social scale more than elsewhere. Among other phenomena related to this, we can see that there were local prototypes which were copied. In the case of the cult statue of Mercury and three reliefs of the same deity from the temple at Uley (Henig 1993, nos. 62, 72–74), we have both of these; we can see that the copies are referential but not always executed at a very high level. The Chedworth Hunter god was perhaps also copied from a local prototype. Overall, then, Chedworth’s owners worked with a similar Roman culture to those of Woodchester, except that (in the limited evidence we have so far), they used the products of local sculptors to replace a lack of imported decorative sculpture. It is interesting to compare the interpretation of a more modest Gloucestershire building, earlier than the time-range we are considering, by Trow, James and Moore, in their expressively-named Becoming Roman, being Gallic, Staying British (2009). This was a small masonry ‘villa’ or Roman-

Fig. 10 Relief of ‘Hunter god’ from Chedworth, 45.5 cms high (©National Trust Images/Ian Shaw).

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style farmstead at the Ditches site 9 km north of Cirencester. It had a date range of the 70s to about 200 AD and was set within the bounds of a ditched enclosure, probably a farmstead, going back to Iron Age times. I can’t do better than to quote from their discussion (p. 69): ‘For their own developing version of “Romanness”, the decision-makers at Ditches were not drawing solely, or even primarily, on the Italianate culture of emperors and senators as the “palace” at Fishbourne clearly did ... Neither was it derived from the large nearby community of lesser Roman citizens, at the legionary base of Glevum, just 19 km west-northwest over the Cotswold scarp. This was partly because they aspired not just to Roman lifestyle but elite lifestyle. Into the AD 70s Glevum certainly accommodated several equestrian officers and a couple of senators (the legionary legate and a youthful military tribune) but, though doubtless comforted by fine tableware and furnishings, these gentlemen were slumming for brief periods of military service in semi-permanent timber accommodation. Glevum offered no useful architectonic model for a country residence.’ [to which one can only comment: the earliest example of Cotswold snobbery about Gloucester!] ‘For their notions of Romanness the Ditches villa builders looked less to Italy, or to Italians in Britain, than to Gaul. ‘ And Trow, James and Moore develop the argument with parallels for the Ditches building plan, common features in the Iron Age inheritance etc. Building VIII at the settlement at Kingscote (Fig. 11) was also not evidently from the top of society. This is variously interpreted as part of a large villa estate or some form of small nucleated settlement (Timby 1998). It has a small room with a mosaic floor illustrating the toilet of Venus and walls with large-scale figurative fresco painting, probably showing Venus dressed in the armour of Mars attended by a Cupid (Fig. 12; Ling 1998). Dolphins and another marine creature, recalling the birth of Venus from the sea, occupy a smaller panel of the floor, which once would have joined the Venus mosaic to the mosaic floor of a larger room (removed in antiquity).T his pair of rooms is interpreted as a dining suite at the back, effectively, of a strip building, the front of which looks to have been functional at a basic level, with items such as handmills for grinding corn in it. As yet we do not understand the context of this building – whether it was an independent or subordinate dwelling or a commercial place of hospitality – but, even if the content of the imagery was not that unusual in Roman iconography (Henig in Johns and Potter 1983, 31, referring to an engraved gem from the Thetford treasure), it is nevertheless remarkable for it to be presented in such an ambitious way in a modest building within a settlement on top of the Cotswolds. All these examples then show Roman culture being actively constructed. This phenomenon is not peculiar to this area, but it is found in different regions of the Roman empire at varying times and the most vigorous expressions are typically associated with wealth. Perhaps the most vivid example was the Roman culture allied to the wheat- and olive-oil-generated wealth of 4th- 6th-century North Africa. This stood out for its originality and vigour – a huge programme of church building, an innovative approach to mosaic design, with all-over narrative and decorative images replacing geometric frameworks (Dunbabin 1978: 1999, 111–19), and the local, hugely exported, version of red shiny pottery with its own repertory and style of images (Hayes 1997, 59–63; Carandini 1983). For Salvian writing in the mid 5th century (De Gubernatione Dei, 7.13–17), Carthage, the principal city of this region, was a new African Rome; and if one compares the lavish material displays of 4th-early-5th-century Tunisia and Tripolitania with central Italy of that time, the original Rome does indeed seem eclipsed. Perhaps, then, we have a version of the same phenomenon in Britain. The examples given provide a basis to start thinking in these terms, since they show originality (the architectural and sculptural adaptations), a love of display with distinctive characteristics (the ‘schools’ in mosaics and the Cotswold sculptures) and all the sites in different ways show a vigorous assertion of Roman culture. Evidently this needs considering more systematically over a fuller range of material remains, as does the definition of the region it applied to.

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Fig. 11 Building VIII at Kingscote (Photograph Kingscote Archaeological Association: courtesy Cotswold Archaeology).

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Fig. 12 Drawing of wall painting of Venus and Cupid, possibly with the armour of Mars, from Kingscote Building VIII (after Ling 1998, fig. 43: courtesy Cotswold Archaeology).

Returning to our main theme, 4th-century Gloucestershire gives us no vision of Rome if we mean the city. We find instead a ‘Roman’ culture created locally and developing under its own momentum, responding to local social conditions and involving the exploitation of local material and craft resources. It probably took on some influences from Gaul. It also asserted a shared identity of ‘Roman’; it used Roman architectural conventions, mosaics and sculpture; some of the imagery of the mosaics and the imported sculpture conveyed empire-wide intellectual and spiritual interests. As a local Roman culture it parallels manifestations in other parts of the empire in comparable, but different, settings. These could all be described as ‘discrepant experience’, but also as ‘Roman’, resulting from aspirational rather than imposed ‘Romanization’. A satisfying twist on the discrepant experience approach is, therefore, that in this way it can explain similarity as well as difference. For the pleasing central paradox of Roman archaeology is that when things are different they are also the same.

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