A short guide to the shape of the Limentinus project, tracing how a small collection of historical curiosities grew into a larger, more intricate structure. This page explains how the main pillars of the site developed, how the themes connect, and how the whole project has become a single, coherent body of work
About the Shape of the Limentinus Project
There comes a moment in any long project when you look around and realise that what you have built is no longer the modest thing you thought you were making.
It’s grown like a Cathedral, changed direction, doubled back on itself, opened new doors and quietly added new wings and small chapels you don’t remember planning. This site has done exactly that sort of development.
What began as a small collection of historical curiosities has become something closer to a lived‑in structure, a place with its own weather and its own sense of time. It’s become a project with a shape, even if that shape only becomes clear when you step back far enough to see the whole thing at once and get a little perspective.
The earliest stones were laid with the Stuarts. They were the first voices that settled here, the first stories that felt like home. Kings and queens, exiles and conspirators, the uneasy dance between power and principle. That section still feels like the great central nave of a Cathedral, the place where the light falls most naturally. It’s dramatic, human, and full of the tensions that make history feel alive. From there the site grew sideways into the world of the lesser saints, that unruly treasury of medieval devotion.
These figures, obscure, local and sometimes delightfully peculiar, filled the place with metaphorical alcoves. They gave the project its sense of depth, its sense that history isn’t only made by the famous but by the forgotten.
The Roman world arrived next, bringing with it a different kind of order. Marble, sandals, law, empire, the long shadow of a civilisation that still shapes the ground beneath our feet. It added structure and weight, a reminder that the past isn’t only a collection of stories but a set of foundations. For a while it was the largest part of the site, and even now it remains a solid pillar, politely sharing the stage with the newer arrivals.
There are meta hubs, highlighting specialist areas of interest and articles.
- Roman Religion: A Meta Hub For Provincial Cults and Syncretic Belief
- Slave Meta Hub
- Rome: Daily Life and The Limentinus Hub
Then came the Isle of Wight, and with it a change of air. These pieces stepped out of the archive and into the lane. They brought churches, shrines, family names, coastal towns and the natural environment of an island that always feels slightly out of time. They gave the project a sense of place, a sense of lived experience, a reminder that history isn’t only something we read but something we walk through. They softened the edges of the site and made it more human.
Burials and material culture followed, a newer wing but one that has grown steadily. This part of the project is concerned with how we remember, how we mark the dead, how stone and ritual and landscape carry meaning across centuries. It’s the archaeology of grief and belief, the material language of memory. It links the past to the present in a way that feels both intimate and universal.
The posthumous veneration of James II and VII sits in its own niche, a focused but fascinating corner where politics, religion and memory meet. It shows how a fallen king can acquire a strange kind of sanctity in exile, and how history and devotion can entwine in ways no one expects. It ties the Stuart work to the wider devotional world and adds another layer to the project’s interest in how people are remembered.
Alongside all this, the Shape of Now emerged almost by accident. It’s the place where the present slips in, where small irritations, surprises and moments of clarity find a home. It’s closer to the blog the site was originally meant to be, a repository of thoughts and ideas that don’t fit neatly anywhere else. It reminds the project that the present is also a kind of history, just one that hasn’t settled yet.
France and Monaco added another shift in tone. These pieces are lighter, warmer, shaped by travel and the Riviera’s particular kind of brightness. They allow for thoughts that don’t always come easily in England and open the door to reflections on Bonaparte and the long afterlife of Bonapartism. They’re a reminder that place changes the way we think.
Blessed John Finch stands as a small but important example of the lesser saints, a figure whose quiet courage shows how martyrdom is often made in small acts rather than grand gestures. His story sits comfortably within the project’s interest in how sanctity is created, remembered and sometimes forgotten.
Then there is Limentinus Fiction, which gathers all the narrative work under one roof. The Marcello Soli cycle, the fictional diaries of the Emperor Glycerius, the stories of Alexios Kantarenos and the pieces still to come. This is the imaginative heart of the site, the place where history becomes story and story becomes a way of thinking about the world. It’s a home for characters, places and lived experience, and it gives the project a creative pulse that runs alongside the historical work.
Taken together, these sections form the architecture of the site. They’re varied, sometimes eccentric, but held together by a shared curiosity about how people lived, believed, ruled, rebelled, remembered and were remembered. The project has grown in ways I didn’t expect, but the shape of it now feels clear. It’s a place built out of memory, imagination and the long view of history. If it feels large, that is only because history is large, and I am simply doing my best to keep the candles lit and point visitors in roughly the right direction.
You’re welcome to wander. If you find yourself lost, that is half the pleasure.