caldrail

Yet Roman sources often describe legions as being poor quality. It's a mistake to believe the Romans were all highly trained elite soldiers. Very few legions made that grade. I don't discount their training at all, just that it needs to be put in perspective. In any event, the Romans often lost battles, especially at the start of a campaign. What usually won a battle before it began was a commander whose strategy was better leading up to the fight. Who faces the sun? Is the enemy enfiladed? Do they enemy know you'll be there? Does the enemy have forces with a weakness? Is the enemy commander a complete chump? Is he short of resources? And so on. I'm sure you can think of others. In fact, Roman commanders were not career officers and many come across as very unimaginative. Yes that's true, but that was also a period when units were completely defeated before they'd reached 30% casualties. It's all very well suggesting that, but remember people did that during the period because they had to, because everyone else did the same, and no-one had any better idea of how to conduct a battle. Whilst the Romans evolved certain drills, for the most part they were unnecessary, or intended for specific circumstances, and the Roman legions were not always as well honed as you might believe. Legions advanced in block for the most part. The idea was to present a steadfast body of men in close order (for the post-marian era anyway) which would charge to contact if the situation was favourable. Clever drills and tactics don't actually improve the performance of men in the front rank. Also, remember the limits of command. The centurion, the primary leader of a century, was most often leading his men from the front and thus unavailable to issue commands. Senior officers usually ranged up and down behind the line to provide moral support. There's little indication, if any, in our sources that the Romans indulged in complex drills on the battlefield. You are right in one sense. Drills do improve performance. But that was a secondary effect. By drilling regularly the men got used to fighting as a unit. That does not mean they used complex drills in battle. Thats a modern interpretation. The Romans never used drums, and flags were employed for fixed positions, not in the battle line, where there was too much room for confusion. Centurions were supposed to use their own initiative and not rely on commands issued from a commander. That was where the flexibility came from, not the actual composition of the troops. Nor for that matter were junior commanders necessarily available for command. The ROmans did not use a pyramid system of command, although to the uninitiated it might seem that way, because they didn't need one. There was no call for squad level tactics in battle. As regarding difficulty, bear in mind the troops are experiencing the noise and confusion of battle. There were cases throughout Roman history where their legions floundered about or drew together in a disorganised mass because what command structure existed had collapsed entirely. Also bear in mind the 'tribal' nature of the legions - Soldiers were likely to refuse orders from a centurion who wasn't their commander.

Melee sometimes continued for some time. That doesn't mean both sides were going at hammer and tongs permanently. In any case, fighting wasn't a sword duel. There would be a lot of pushing, shoving, throwing any object that came to hand. There is a description of two Roman units engaged in combat in a civil war. The Roman writer tells us that every so often they broke off, regained their breath, and went at it again without any thought of giving up. It would only last a short while if one side broke for some reason. Think of rioters vs police. It's a good modern analogy. Those confrontations can go on for a long time (though I accept the idea isn't to stab the other side to death)

barca, you might well be right. Drills in practice are one thing. Movement on rough ground stepping over bodies dead or dying is another matter. Some people overstate the battlefield discipline in my view. It's part of the image of the military machine that we have in our own minds. It is true such things happened in later eras though. The real question was whether the Romans actually needed such techniques on the battlefield. I don't believe they did. Necessity is the mother of invention after all, and the opponents of Rome weren't that siophisicated more often than not. Why make things complicated? The Romans may have been great organisers, but they weren't actually a sophisticated people as a whole.

I used to see urban foxes from my back window on a regular basis. More often than that, I would hear their yelps and screeches in the dead of night. It's been a while since that noise has pierced the stillness of Old Town's quiet hour. Had pest controllers reduced their numbers? It seemed as if the only interruption to my slumber was going to be inept car thieves from now on. Last night a vivid sunset appeared through my back window. I went off to get the camera, opened the window, and took yet another picture of the colourful embers at the end of the day. For a while I stood looking out, enjoying the scene. Swindon was peaceful, without the traffic noise or drunken shouts you normally hear in the early evening. The movement in the alleyway caught my attention. At first I thought it was a cat, striding confidently down the cinder path between the stands of tall grass and brambles either side. As the animal emerged into the yard, it was clearly not feline at all. It was a fox. A young one, almost emaciated and strangely suggestive of a small deer with a ridiculously bushy tail. Where did this one come from? Most likely it found a home in the overgrown back gardens along the way. Can I get a photo of it? Obligingly it sat in the yard doing foxy things. With some haste I began to set the camera for an optimistic long shot. My camera is not well suited to accurate zoom photographs but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I think the fox spotted me in the window. With the cunning you expect of the species, it calmly headed for the brambles along the fence and vanished into the old college site. Well good luck to you, youngster. You'll need it. Help Required I've received a letter from the council. More specifically, from some bloke who got that job in development & planning I applied for some time ago. And now he's asking me for ideas on how to improve the area I live in? Cheek of the working class. Maybe he ought to take a wander around and see for himself. Feral Instinct A couple of days ago I trudged up the hill to the corner shop that stays open all night. It's rather like an american 7-11 store except you don't see any guns pointed at shopkeepers, and the women behind the counter never acknowledge your existence, never mind wish you a nice day. Now my favourite tipple is cider and having not indulged that particular passion for a while now, I felt the urge to do so. Let no-one doubt my british ancestory. Whatever next? Stumbling up and down the hill shouting loudly at night? Depositing curry and kebabs on the pavement in various states of digestion? Making colourful scribbles with a spray can on every available vertical surface? Smashing car windows? Workshy I bumped into Miss T yesterday, or more accurately, she nearly ran me down on her bicycle. Was it something I said? She asked me if I'd heard from KS, my workshy colleague from when I was on a placement at the department store earlier this year. No, I hadn't, and she told me that he's broken a limb. Not sure whether it's an arm or a leg that was broken. Not that it matters. By all accounts he still plays football so he's happy. I know the lad's keen on kicking footballs around, but with limbs in plaster? At least it gets him off work. And off the streets too. My first thought was to advise parents that it was finally safe, while KS recovers from his accident, to unlock their daughters and let them roam free. You just know it isn't. I can only imagine the lengths KS will go to to get laid now he has a plaster cast for the girls to feel sympathy for. Perhaps that's unfair. The poor lad is genuinely injured. Unlike the claimant a couple of days ago who phoned his boss to tell him he was still at the Job Centre and was going to be late. He didn't even apologise.

As a rule ladders have never caused me a great deal of hassle. Traditionally I have much more of a problem with doors, which always seem to open in some other way than appears intuitively obvious. As I mentioned in yesterdays entry, there was one time when the ladder fought back. Back in the days when I first turned professional as a drummer, I needed to supplement my non-existent income from record royalties, and running light shows for my a friend of mine, the quiet and ever-optimistic FR who gladly forked out a few quid to avoid the onerous task of spending an afternoon setting up a light show, was as good a means as any. The theatre at Swindons Link Centre, a sports and community complex in the west of the town, is at first sight not much to look at. Sort of a big breeze block cube. It spends the day as a gymnasium in normal circumstances. Gigs were infrequent there but usually well attended. I guess entertainment is hard to come by in West Swindon if you don't like painting grafitti or stealing cars. The first job of the day was sorting out the lights. That's a little tip from an experienced light rigger. They were hanging from metal bars on a walkway up in the roof, something like an extra thirty feet above sea level, and besides needing to be pointed in the desired direction, also needed gels of the right colour inserted, and most importantly of all, the little safety chains fixed to prevent any of these heavy objects falling onto the audience. These walkways had no direct access. Instead, you had to take a wooden ladder onto the upstairs balcony and climb up on one side or the other. I was part of the way onto a walkway when the ladder slipped sideways. Woooah! Try as hard as I might, I could not get the ladder to balance back on its feet again. It fell sideways onto the seating leaving me dangling from the walkway in the dark, thankfully over the balcony, and not the theatre floor. I remember making an involuntary cry for help. Below me, a curious member of the public soaking up the atmosphere of a gig in preparation, stared up at me and did nothing, transfixed by the contempt for danger we light riggers had.. Oh brilliant. He wants to watch me die in a horrible accident. Thanks for the assistance mate. Actually the risk was slight. I managed to unhook myself from sharp metal edges and lower myself to the balcony, suffering only a ripped sweatshirt and soiled underpants. Take a deep breath. Put the ladder back. Start again. Revenge of the Week As it turned out, the gig that night was a band I'd encountered while playing with Red Jasper. That was the gig we went all the way to north England only to discover we were getting shafted and pushed into the twilight of the event after the headline act had finished. I'll always remember the smirk on the face of this bands lead singer as we retreated to the van and began our long trek home. And there he was, below me on the performance area, having long forgotten his arrogant amusement. I was sat in a small room from where I controlled the lights. Control them I did. Fades, flashes, and all sorts of funky combinations, putting on the most epileptic fit inducing performance I could think of when what they actually wanted was mood lighting in front of a seated audience. Sorry about that... Well, maybe you should have told me what you wanted in the first place.... Nah, that wasn't me.... Revenge is a dish best served bright.

For some time now the weather has been dry but cloudy. Sometimes the breeze has been a refreshing change, on other days a dull humidity has made the day uncomfortable to some small degree. So far we haven't had any sign of the blazing summer our global warmers have predicted. The library has been unbearably stale, air conditioning or not. After a quick visit yesterday lunchtime, I'd had enough of it, and went home via the alleyway behind the Old College site. I'll miss the unkempt foliage when it all gets redeveloped. What I won't miss are the piles of detritus that humans habitually discard when they can't be bothered to take it anywhere else. I certainly won't miss the glowering teenagers hanging about in the seclusion of garage entrances. Finally I walked into the yard behind the house. From there, on a sunday, there was only a couple of cars parked and one was my own Eunos cabriolet, looking a little sorry for itself and if I were honest, a little more sorry than usual. It wasn't that the hood was looking tatty as the black tape I used to repair the holes ripped into it by thieves is waving in the wind. It wasn't the bird pooh, nor the verdigris of abandonment. It was the doors. Well that explains the noise a few nights ago in the wee small hours. Another thief has poked around and discovered the car isn't going anywhere. Thieves seem to visit the same place repeatedly, trying out the next car another night, until they run out of vehicles to enter and move their attention to the next likely spot. Since one of my neighbours got their car broken into, I received a letter from the police telling me how to avoid car crime. Are they kidding? As much as the registration number has fond memories for me, even I begin to see the folly of keeping that chassis there, especially since I'm no longer eligible under current regulations to retain the numberplate any more. It's going to feel like parting company with an old friend. Funny how we become so attached to material things for no logical reason. People I Know There's a guy I sometimes see here and there. He's unemployed like me, and strangely enough, usually at the library the same time too. Always in the exactly the same white baseball cap and blue windcheater. Come rain and shine he's always dressed the same. There he is again. Chatting amongst the moaning claimants awaiting their turn to sign on. And there he is again, at the library afterward. Today however I bumped into FR. I used to know him from my days in local bands, playing on stage with him, or helping him with PA hire and light shows. Thanks to his good graces, I used to earn a few quid doing light shows in the theatre at a sports centre in West Swindon. That was pretty dull to be honest, but going up on the catwalks to assemble the lights was fun for someone as nervous of heights as I am, and on one occaision the ladder fell away with me on it, though I didn't come to any harm. Anyhow, he's getting into film music now. No contracts yet, but some encouraging interest from production companies. I hope that works out out for him.

Huns?? You mean Goths and Vandals? The Huns had threatened the eastern Roman empire in the 4th century, mostly by reputation. One general Trajan (not the emperor) had a wall built to keep them out. That said, the arrival of huns toward the end of that century precipitated a certain river crossing by goths to escape them, and as we know, the Romans suffered a spectacular defeat soon after. As regards Hannibal marching on Rome, the Romans themselves believed that disaster was a few days march away. It may well have bbeen. Now whilst Hannibal was an intelligent man, he would as a military commander be dependent on reports from spies, deserters, and civilians, in order to make decisions on strategy. It is therefore likely that he wasn't aware how exposed Rome was. If he did know, and refused to make the final blow, then it was because he wanted to bring the Romans to their knees by attrition on their home ground, not by tying himself down to a costly siege, which would have ultimately made him vulnerable had the affair not been finsihed quickly. In other words, he chose not to take the risk.

You see them here and there. Gaps in the tarmac containing shallow gravel bottomed puddles. Potholes like that are everywhere in Britain as a result of reduced spending on maintenance and some harsh weather. Here in Swindon though we have another type of road cavity. I saw another one opening in the exit road from the old college car park. A round hole, about three inches across, and you can see a hollowed out cavity underneath. I have this mental image of the new shopping arcade disappearing down a big dark pit in a few years time. You sort of know that's inevitable one way or another. Then again, Swindon has always had a love affair with subterranean tunnels. When they redeveloped land once part of the Great Western Railway Works, the builders uncovered old cellars left forgotten since World War Two. Tons of archives had been stored there for safe-keeping when the war began and work continues on cataloguing all the stuff they found. There's that tunnel under Old Town started by the Swindon & Andover Railway, one end of which now forming Queens Park. All the tools are still there, buried where the unpaid navvies left them. Then there's the smugglers tunnels under Old Town streets, linking various properties so liquor could be moved around literally under the noses of the 18th century customs & excise men. Local folklore still persists about a long tunnel remaining undisturbed since that period in the Rodbourne area, which at that time was largely rural land. Swindon is a known haunt of rats. I've nearly stepped on the things in broad daylight once or twice, but never in my area, which is odd because apparently Old Town is said to be full of them. Don't laugh. My letting agent asked me to report any subsidence, and guess what who's the cause of that? I've heard it said that in urban Britain you're never more than six feet away from a rat. So if you want to visit Britain, please enjoy our quaint and medieval culture. Only two groats for adults. Special offer. Get A Life, Phil I don't watch Eastenders. As television soap operas go, it manages to be the most consistently depressing of them all. At least Crossroads used to be unintentionally funny. That said, I can't escape the hype. The news item is telling me that Phil Mitchell, one of the two hard boy brothers whose escapades help form the backbone of the program, is suffering from life subsidence. It's all falling to bits. Erm... I know that. It was falling to bits from episode one. It's called drama. More Classics I'm starting to wonder if I've dropped through some sort of hole in time. I know this is summer and so you'd expect the presence of treasured old-timer vehicles, but classic cars, lorries, coaches, and buses keep on travelling through Swindon. It is peculiar. I've heard it said, and repeated on this blog often enough, that Swindon is a town that knows how to live with the future, but not with the past. So much of our victorian gothic heritage has been bulldozed. Besides the characterless flats squeezed into every nook and cranny, the developers have been laying those incredibly naff neon strips in the shopping mall pavement that they warned us about. Nonetheless, it seems the pace of modernisation isn't fast enough. We're being colonised by classic cars. I've even seen a rag-and-bone man driving his horse and cart up the hill where I live. What is going on?

No. The object of this thread was discuss a possible gladiator graveyard so I've dicussed it from that perspective. I also think you miss the point of speculation. It's common in such fields of knowledge for people to become very conservative, to value what they've learned, and in some cases become overly proud of their accumulated knowledge that they become very dismissive of anything that disagrees with them. This usually happens in areas where nothing is known for certain, and individuals push their opinions forward not so that people understand the subject, but that they understand the speaker is more knowledgable than them. Social status in other words. We humans indulge in that rather a lot. I was reading in our local library this morningabout a meeting held by a natural history society in Swindon way back in 1873. Learned gentlemen gave lectures and various finds were set out for the perusal of the gathered members. A large tooth recovered from the clay beds for instance, described as from a 'Sea Dragon'. This was a period when paleontology was in its infancy, caught between darwinist and christian thinking. Although the species of sea dragon had by then received an official name, no-one really understood what these creatures were. So learned gentlemen gave their opinion. These victorian speculations are quite laughable these days. Back in 1873, they'd reached the conclusions that Swindon had once been the home of the first true frog, and a species of small kangaroo. Wrong on both counts, but they hadn't connected all the dots back then, and in any event, weren't aware of many of them. These days we draw on the accumulated data and even other disciplines to shed light on our understanding. Is history any different? To me that seems a rather glib explanation. Seneca knew what executions were. He knew what part of day they took place. He may well have known if criminal execustions were advertised as part of the proceedings. He knew the various formats of events taking place at munera. That wouldn't suprise him. The phrase 'sheer murder' is, as I mentioned before, the important point. It describes killing without the usual restrictions. Since executions represent the rules, as it were, it can hardly be credible that rules were being set aside for a public condemnation and death of a convicted criminal when it's the state that creates the rules of that killing.

10 - "It'll never catch on, Cassius..." 11 - Aliens from Planet Zarg chose their identities to fit into human society with great care 12 - CIA spending cutbacks cause problems for agents in the field.

Then why did he not emphasise his own error? Clearly what he was seeing was what the sort of thing he expected - but far bloodier. The mythological context is irreelevant in this respect. Precisely. We do need to understand though that fifteen hundred years of swordplay leaves us with a body of experience to fall back on in studying the results of fighting. Whilst the gladiators were usually equipped with armour of some sort, that protection was designed to minimise injuries, not deaths. Some of their protection, such as the padding on the sword arm, is designed to prevent bruising against the shield edge and has nothing to do with combat injuries at all. What the Romans were doing was trying to ensure that if a debilitating strike was made, then it would be final. One thrust, one death. In reality of course the injuries from swordplay far outweigh the deaths, which is why the Romans evolved the ritual of asking for clemency if the wounded (or exhausted) gladiator could not continue. Seneca would have observed this phenomenon as a matter of course. Please bear in mind he was not a naive innocent. He lived in Rome and obviously enjoyed the spectacle as much as anyone else, and he did choose to visit the arena that rather than being obliged to attend. For him to describe the event as 'sheer murder' is significant. Now I agree that doesn't mean that the gladiators on that particular day weren't thrusting with lethal precision, but given the average size of events and skill levels of Roman munera, it would be an unusual day indeed if the death rate scored a huge blip. Seneca however is unlikely to be describing executions. Those were not regarded as 'murder' by the population in any sense, and for that matter, neither were ritual coup de graces. These were deaths conducted in an expected manner, either as bloody or painful as possible in the first case, or with respectful immediacy in the second. So if the fights were conducted according the accepted rules of the time, bearing in mind the compensation payments you've already stressed, then a good number would be granted missio. But that leaves us with a quandary, because Seneca is specifically that event as bloodier than expected. Of course that doesn't describe whether missio was being granted or not, but at the same time it does imply a far less merciful scene, which is why I suggested the two alternative explanations. If you want to know want Caldrail wants, perhaps you should ask him What I want is to know the truth. I don't have the prvilege of access to original data nor the experience of forensic archaeology to make a definitive explanation. Therefore I must simply take what I understand to be the case at face value. If indeed the bones turn out to be noxii, then fine, that's how it was. I have absolutely no problem with that. What I do have a problem with is explanations that are a little too convenient or dismissive. In any case, speculation is good for history. It really is. If all we do is repeat 'parrot fashion' everything we've learned, then we've understood nothing, and instead turn history into some form of religion where saying anything different is sacrilege. As long as speculation is seen for what it is, we can use the ideas to search for explanations of previous events in a new light. That all sounds a bit imprecise. It is. Because unless you place those speculations within context, they remain nothing more and may even distract us from accuracy. Ask any archaeologist. Context is vital to understanding remains discovered. And I notice the context of the remains at York does not conform to noxii at all.

Every day when I sign on the chap across the desk pulls up a screen full of job vacancies within my chosen criteria. You do tend to get a mixed bag, some of them distinctly undesirable or impossible for various reasons, but by and large the range becomes familiar. Well it should do really, I've been applying for those sort of jobs for a couple of years now. Now that my letter of complaint has been handed in, I must face the music. The Job Centre hate nothing more than a claimant who doesn't shrink from their power. They dredged up every possible onerous, menial, and degrading vacancy they could find. The young claims advisor looked uncomfortable and pointed at the only one that fell within the sphere of warehousing. General Assistant. Yep, that's about as low as you can get in warehousing. Go on, print it off. Let's get this nonsense over and done with. As chance would have it, they forgot to remove the printed list of the latest vacancies, and being the sharp eyed jobseeker I always was, I immediately spotted a somewhat more rewarding vacancy. Woo hoo! "Uhhh..." The advisor winced, "That doesn't seem to have shown up in the computor search." No kidding. Go and print it off. Meanwhile I'll sit here safe in the knowledge that I've another vacancy waiting to apply for by email later. If the government want their representatives to play silly games, I've got better things to do. Like look for a job, maybe? Less Benefits, More Support Our new government have decided in their ultimate wisdom that benefits need to be simplified and more supportive. I wish I could claim credit for having woken them up to the reality of living on welfare, but a - I haven't, and b - They're still snoring. It's a nice idea. Give people enough financial support to make getting a low paid job actually financially worthwhile. The truth is that the government are more interested in paying their own bills than mine. On the one hand, you can't blame them for that. On the other hand, you might might be somewhat dependent on their handouts and believe me this sort of messing around with payments makes me very nervous. No Pain, No Gain Just to underline the seriousness of my jobsearch, I have to point out that not only did I walk a total of twenty miles in connection with my recent job interview, I also have the blisters to show for it. Perhaps that's a good thing. There's probably a government requirement that all jobseekers must suffer at least one a week. It must be said I've had long experience of blisters on my feet. Big ones, small ones, harmless ones, or blisters with enough fluid to keep me alive for three days in desert conditions. You'd think by now I'd figured out how to avoid actually suffering more of them, but no, occaisionally I still get to feel their squidgy presence. As a result of my long trek to the industrial estate on the edge of the known world, I suffered two, at the same time. One was a white harmless one. Easily dealt with and no painful rehabilitation required. The other was a nasty, grey-green, gruesome blister that was causing considerable discomfort on the ball of my left foot. Easily dealt with, but painless? Now that it's a few days on and I'm done cursing very loudly, the nasty blister is healing nicely. Still a little tender but not debilitating. Just as well. I've got a daily signing session to attend and that means walking there. Somehow I doubt they'll be impressed with my tales of woe.

Yes, you could see it that way, but notice he was expecting something ordinary and saw something different. Further, his comment is not disparaging toward whoever was taking part nor does he infer any sense of justice. Also, if Seneca came in and saw executions, why was he expecting entertainment? If that was the case, surely he wouldn't be especially bothered by any bloodiness involved? Since when were Roman public executions swift and painless? They were always conducted in a manner to inspire fear of the consequences of misbehaviour and to demonstrate power. that last attribute is absent from Seneca's quote. In no way was he impressed. Then of course you could see it another way. What if the fights were deliberately bloody? Normally an editor would make a big deal of fights to held to the death with prior advertising and gossip, because that would draw in the crowd. However, Augustus had banned fights sine missione and thus it was likely that Seneca was looking at a fight conducted in an illegal manner. In that case, he would be hoping that the extra blood and aggression would make his games memorable even if he couldn't get away with blowing his own trumpet. If that's the case, then in a way he succeeded.

Oh brilliant. I've got thirty minutes left on my computer slot to type this blog entry in. Everything I do these days is against the clock. Get to my daily signing on time... Fill in the online application before the screen closes to the default page.... Get home in time to see Star Trek.... An endless cycle of deadlines. So, at least you'll be pleased to learn that todays blog entry won't cause the reader much of an obstacle to your schedule. As it happens, it's been a calm and quiet day. Met an old lady walking her greyhound earlier. She lives in the New Forest area, which means she certainly does like to exercise her dog. That said, she is here on business, and I came across her while she took time out from her business meeting to go walkies. Nice lady. We had a great little conversation about things canine. There you go. Short and sweet. You can all go back to whatever you were doing before. Except me, as I still have to find a job thus my routine isn't going to change until the government says so. On my emails I've already had two rejections. Good grief, I only applied for those three hours ago. Looks they have tight deadlines too. Golf can be so demanding. Well that's all I have time for today. I must remember to leave enough time to attend a seminar coming up in the next few weeks. 'How To Find A Job'. And according to the letter I got this morning, they're thrilled I'm coming along. As if I was given the choice. Oh well. Must rush. I have a diary to fill in.

7 - "No connection. I knew these things were a stupid barbarian idea. Break out the signal flags lads, and get someone up on that hill" 8 - "Umm?.. Oh, it's tablet game... Total Anhilation:Rome. Can't seem to get past the fourth level..." 9 - "You know, if Spartacus sends me one more text, I swear I'll crucify him when I catch him"

4 - "Oh for Hades sake! It's been two thousand years and Apple still haven't sorted out the bugs" 5 - "Bad news Cassius. We've lost three nil to the Germans." 6 - "It's from Augustus. Have you seen any eagles?"

Parrot? In a sense, Med, but then how many of us are finding original remains and sources? We're all acting as parrots to some degree, because we have to rely on data collated by others. Also bear in mind that whilst I'm accepting the results of archaeological digs at York and Ephesus at face value, I'm also prepared to accept findings that differ from the possible explanations given so far. However, that doesn't change my stance for the moment. I thought about it that far at least, and tried to enlarge on a possible explanation that is consistent with the published findings. Now, as for thinking, since you kindly asked me to, I shall. We've already had a debate on the nature of theatre in connection with gladiatorial combat. Seneca provides us with a quotation that at first glance appears to confirm that. I don't have the correct wording, but he says something along the lines of "I stopped off at the arena hoping to see some entertainment, but it was sheer murder out there". You know the quote? So why is the meaning in doubt? It depends on how you interpret what Seneca means. Firstly, he expects the same sort of entertainment he usually gets at such events, and as we've agreed, the fights in his day were conducted with some seriousness. To him, that was entertainment. A swordfight. But also a swordfight conducted in a familiar manner. Now he describes the fights he saw that day as 'sheer murder'. Why? He was already accustomed to the reality of fighting and dying in the arena, and indeed, had gone there specifically for that. My own consideration (and since this isn't something I've seen written anywhere else, it falls within your definition of thought) is that the referee(s) had lost control. The fights had gotten ugly for some reason. Gladiators were pulling tricks and foul moves, largely ignoring the hapless referee. As a result, Seneca witnesses a nasty 'no-holds-barred' fight. Sheer murder out there.

1 - "Sir, I think the greek who sold you that messaging tablet was pulling your leg" 2 - d e a r g o v e r n e r , b r i a n n o t a t i c e c r e a m s t a l l 3 - "Edible codpieces? The emperor wants, the emperor gets..."

Maybe it is. It might also be that however enthusiastic you are about documenting your adventures in text and imagery, or even how interesting it actually is compared to other peoples, it often depends on your presence in their imaginations. A celebrity can make a sentence appear everywhere. I can't even get the Job Centre to get my name right.

With such fine weather this morning I left the house earlier and took a few moments to enjoy Queens Park while it's still quiet before heading off to the Job Centre. The fountain in the middle of the lake has been turned off and as much as I hate the infernal thing, seeing a bird resting on the spout made that mischievious side of me want to see it turned on again, if only briefly. The water level is well down. There's now a substantial gravel beach and that's the first time I've seen that happen at Queens Park. So far, however, no jellyfish. The waterfowl of Swindon can sleep safely in their nests for now. Job Offer "Looking for a job, mate?" Came the urgent enquiry from a burly and suntanned chap as I passed him just down the road from the Job Centre. I don't usually receive offers of employment in this fashion and my alarm bells were ringing. Yes, as it happens, I am. "Building work?" I'm not a builder, sorry. I began to continue on my way but he insisted on attempting to persuade me. "Do you drive?" He asked. Yes... I do. "Just need you to drive a tipper. That's all. Cash in hand." Cash in hand? This all sounds well dodgy and being unemployed, earning money cash in hand, even if I admit to it and declare my earnings, brings me into a shadowy realm of benefit investigation. Never mind it smacks of television sit-coms. I could see myself driving a three wheeled yellow truck. Erm.... No. Thank you, but no. Crusing I've just seen an american 1930's/40's car warbling past, a two seat coup in glorious reddish-brown primer, whitewall tires, and looking suprisingly sprightly as it made swift progress through the road junction. A definite rarity to our shores. By now it probably has an engine and suspension transplant, which would account for the very sorted feel it gave off, and no doubt will sport a glossy paint job in the near future. That makes two old yank cars in our area that I know of. There's an odd looking four door that gets paraded at fetes and so forth, in a sort of gold colour with chrome strips running back from the radiator grill. Haven't the slightest idea what it is, but is genuinely well looked after. Oh yes. There's a fifties pickup truck in rusty blue that I've seen around as well. Looks like the tax on new car sales is finally starting to have an effect. Shock Update For those unable to cope with the uncertainty of Gordon Browns new book release, relax, I have the answer. His bestseller novel on 'global financial disasters and how to avoid them' arrives on the shelves in November. Gripping stuff. Can't wait for that. I wonder who'll play the leading role when the film gets made in a couple of years time? Tell Leonardo De Caprio to start practising a slightly scottish accent now.

Today was my job interview. I'd like to say it was yet another one, but I don't get much response from employers these days. So I'll confess and tell you this was my second job interview this year. Maybe the economy is picking up after all. Normally I'd relate a few witty anecdotes about todays litle expedition to some far flung part of Swindon. Unfortunately it was one of the dullest experiences I've had in the workplace ever, not to mention a long walk away. It was an odd experience passing an 19th century milestone on a residential street telling me I'd just covered three miles from home. Somewhat worse was the humid weather. Now here in Britain we don't usually get days like those in the deep south of other nations. For us, wet and windy with occaisional showers is what we're used to. Just of late we've al been sweating like pigs - apart the young man who walked past me yesterday dressed in a heavy black leather jacket without a hint of perspiration. He cannot be human. It comes as a shock to discover how fashion-aware androids are becoming these days. the security guard at the library was standing there trying to look official and important with his forehead covered in droplets. I made a witty request that he should turn the air conditioning on. Apparently it was on, and I've learned that security men have no known sense of humour. Eventually, dehydrated and panting for breath, I arrived at the industrial park on the edge of the known world. The workplace I was looking for is a secure warehouse. From the outside, thee's nothing to see, no movement, no activity. The gate opens remotely by pressing a buzzer. All it needed was a dark sky with lightning and thunder. Maybe a few bats flying around. Or maybe a lorry driven at breakneck speed by a wild-eyed maniac whipping the dashboard to urge the diesel engine to greater revs. Through the door marked "Reception" and I enter a narrow cobwebbed hallway. No-one around.... The visitors book shows the last gentleman logged in and never left. Hello?... Anyone here?.... Commercial Break Time to fade to black at the moment of maximum suspense and go to commercials. Don't worry, we'll be right back after these important messages. Important Messages Be careful if you're heading down to the beach. Apparently jellyfish are trying to conquer England. So far they haven't been able to cope with being out of water but remain dangerous when beached on the sand. It wouldn't suprise me if the next time I'm waiting at the Job Centre a cheerful lady will pop her head around the corner and ask "Mister J Fish? Is there a Mister Fish here please?" Only a matter of time in our politically correct nation. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pop down to the Job Centre armed with a letter of complaint. 'Mister Lord' my butt. They're not getting away with it. And Now, The Concluding Part... On the way home I was walking back along the old canal path. Ahead of me was a woman exercising her dog. I've long since come to accept that I'm a dog magnet. Like that dog at Lawns yesterday, that approached me in the most peculiarly servile fashion hoping to grab some friendly attention. No problem. I don't resent animals looking to make friends. This one was a little terrier. It spotted me from some distance and you could almost see it plotting at which point it would make a mad dash for attention. Which it promptly did. Oh well. Never mind. Hello little dog, yes, I'm pleased to meet you too. "Oh, look who it is." The owner said. Huh? I looked up and took a moment to recognise a woman I used to work with many many mooons ago. She was always a little dodgy. Friendly one minute, stabbing you in the back the next. So far she was being friendly so I'll encourage that. She made a fair stab at chatting about old times. Truth was I wasn't all that interested in talking to her, but I answered politely. "She's only young," SF carried on, talking about her dog "She laps up all the exercise. I'm losing weight now after all those cigarettes over the years." That dog will wear you out, I responded. SF chuckled, but I think she failed to realise exactly what I meant.

Funny that. It's almost as if they're merely being polite. Either that or we kid ourselves how interesting our photographs are. There was a time when I was working for a japanese company. There was literally nothing to do all day but sit twiddling our thumbs. Out of sheer boredom I brought along a cd full of my local scenery snapshots, and out of boredom, my two team members went through them, jpeg by jpeg. Perhaps that was why they stabbed me in the back and got me fired If they didn't like the photos, they only had to say.... As much as we value our own work, I think we have to face the inevitable reality that not everyone else will see the value of it. I learned that lesson in the music business many years ago. Every band in the world think they're brilliant. But out of all the billions of human beings in the worlds population, how many are truly regarded as gifted and listened to by the rest of us?

In answer to criticism of points raised earlier - I'm relying on the opinions put forward by people better qualified than me, since I have no personal experience of forensic archaeology. Wide feet suggest someone who has spent most of their time bare foot - it's a known characteristic in human beings. Also, not all gladiators were taught to fight with either hand - that's myth. Otherwise, why would Commodus have been so proud of fighting in the left handed style, mentioned as being very rare? Large size might point to a diet of barley which has this effect on growth patterns. It doesn't necessarily indicate foreign extraction, although many of the remains at York did come from eastern europe (their data, not mine).

Forensic examination of the finds shows evidence of gladiatorial lifestyles. Healed injuries, wide feet, large size, unequal arm length, and so forth. I also understand that similar evidence of a hammer coup de gras has been found at Ephesus, Turkey. Further, the bodies were buried with care which is inconsistent with treatment of criminals. One had substantial grave goods. Since York was a major Roman station, it does seem odd that some sort of permanent amphitheatre wasn't present, even at that far flung part of the empire. Such places weren't particularly big in Roman Britain. The one in Cirencester, one of the largest towns of that period, is quite modest. The amphitheatre in Londinium was discovered by accident only recently, so there's hope for York yet.

What does a photograph mean? On the face of it, probably not much, as it is after all a static recording of light received by a chemical or electronic process at that given moment. Sometimes it can convey information, or perhaps preserve a happy memory. You could say a photograph has whatever significance you place upon it. Some people have a gift for photography. They manage to capture more than a smple recording of light. They capture movement, frozen for that instant, or a scene that invokes a mood. My own efforts at taking photos aren't really intended for public consumption which is probably just as well considering how dull they usually are. Perhaps it's just as well that I don't indulge in the worst excesses of the amateur photographer - the family album. In actual fact, I've been very lucky in the past. So far I've only been caught twice with a family album to look through. Once by a young lady who was desperate to keep me there until she plucked up the courage to... Well.. You know.... The second time by the mother of a friend of mine who was, I think, feeling a bit lonely and just needed someone to talk to. Other than that I've gotten away with it. Yesterday I got ambushed with some wedding photos of our relations out in New Zealand. The photo of the newly weds was pushed under my nose with particular care. I knew the groom. I'd met him as a troubled teenager and once gave him a swift ride in a sports car around Swindon in an effort to stop him freaking out at what was an extraordinarily dull family meet. He even tried to get me to do the same in New Zealand in a hire car and that after he'd narrowly escaped prosecution for wrapping his own vehicle around a tree on a rain soaked curve. The woman he was marrying was a very pretty young blonde, who I've never met, and I haven't a clue who she is. But at that stage of the proceedings, I realised what this close encounter of the family album kind was about. My mother is at it again. Scheming.... Plotting.... If you haven't guessed already, she wants to play happy families. She tries this on a regular basis. It isn't that I wouldn't become a family man if the right circumstances came about, but it's the circumstances happening in front of me I don't like. The emotional manipulation annoys me most of all. Why can't she just ask me? Why can't she just accept things are they way they are? The answer is that she prefers to pull strings. It makes her feel clever. A part of me thinks that she wants me married off not for my benefit, but so she can play the grannie to her own friends. The other part of me thinks it's all about making me conform to her very own fantasy of what I should be. Somewhere in all of this I'm just a means to an end. Nice try, but wedding photos aren't as effective as magic wands. Magic Books Talking of magic wands, I see Gordon Brown is writing a book about the global financial crisis and what lessons we can learn from it. Maybe it's just me, but I thought we'd already cottoned on how to solve that. Not that I'm particularly bothered. I won't be reading it. His brand of magic is a little bit of a con-trick in my experience. In any case, when the news reporter asked when his book was coming out, he answered that he didn't know. I sense an global publishing crisis on the horizon.