caldrail

Actually no, he didn't. Caesar realised the importance of his centurions who were responsible for standards of training and such. He knew them all by name, which is an interesting insight into Roman senior command of his day. As it happens, whilst Caesar was a charismatic man and a gifted battlefield commander, his campaigning has been described as "careless". But yes, it was still possible in the 4th century as Sebastianus proved. As for Theodosius and the poor quality of his recruits, this was an ongoing problem in the late empire. They were taking people where-ever they could find them because the public were much less interested in serving in the legions than they had in earlier times and people who would not have passed muster in those days were now signed on.

There's nothing much going on and since I haven't been hiking much this year, I thought that Monday would be a good excuse to hit the trail. An early morning start then. That was never a problem for me. I've always been a self disciplined chap at heart. So when I began to wake around six o'clock, there was the urge to leap out of bed and be on my way - hopefully remembering to dress for the occaision - but no, a stronger urge to sleep on took hold. That's not like me. Every so often I wearily opened my eyes and the same mental battle was taking place. Stay comfortable in bed, or push the boundary of human endurance in the sun bleached rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire? Ahhh.... I should be getting out of bed... But, ahhhh.... I don't want to. Am I getting lazy? Me? This cannot be happening. So I forced myself out bed which coincidentially happened the same time I usually do these days, and packed my rucksack for the journey to the library down the road, where I typed this blog entry. But rest assured, when I've logged off, I'm out there. I mean, right out there, in the wild frontier of the Downs, risking life and limb against nettle thickets and sheep attacks N, really, I mean it. I will. Oh yeah, I need to get some milk. And I've run out of this, that, and the other... Help, it's mid-morning and all I've done so far is sit at a computer... Dubious Fun In Dubai I noticed a news item today on "How to get arrested in Dubai". I can't say that's one of my greatest ambitions. Apparently it is incredibly easy to get arrested there, so it's not exactly challenging either. It seems that drinking, intimacy, gesturing, and wearing shorts are all reasons for Dubai policemen to cart you off in handcuffs. I'm suprised they haven't declared being English as a cause for restraint. They might just as well.

It needs to be borne in mind that battle tactics in the late empire were exactly what the Romans had become unused to. Whereas in the past the Romans tended to deal with a situation from one direction massed into a large force, by the late empire they were dealing primarily with a very long turbulent frontier, a security situation they had to adapt to. Their answer was to have more but smaller legions, and a two tier system of frontier guards and 'response' legions. They no longer fought set piece battles as a rule, but conducted low level warfare. The situation in Afghanistan is an analogy if a somewhat poor one, but you get the idea? Unfortunately the centurionate was no longer what it was. Partly by design, partly through the losses incurred in civil war, and noticeably the morale and discipline of late empire troops was sadly lacking - not something conducive tio performance on the battlefield. The duplex acies may have been the most popular or the standard formation rather than the only one available. Roman commanders were rarely credited with much imagination and always, even from the earliest times, preferred brute force over clever plans - though that might also have a practical reason since the best laid plans... battlefield command was never easy. Quality - a good question. Zosimus, Vegetius, and to a lesser extent Marcellinus indicate the majority of troops were very lacklustre indeed. Valens had to make a series of speeches just to get his men to march on campaign. However - and I say this advisedly - Sebastianus chose new recruits as the core of his elite advance guard. Men described as still keen to get fighting unlike the experienced soldiers that Zosimus sneers at for being effeminate - and his choice proved a good one, because before the battle of Adrianople his raiding tactics were having a very powerful effect on gothic movements. Zosimus tells us that "Heads were being returned to Constantinople every day". In short, the capacity of the Romans to be excellent soldiers was still present, but that generally poor leadership and a persistent morale problem prevented Roman armies of the period from performing at what should have been their peak.

I suspect that if Plato wanted to tell someone something he wouldn't have written it in some mystical code. I get a bit fed up with this sort of conspiracy-theory. It's that part of the human brain that deals with religious leanings. People want this mystery in life and deliberately search for it, and you get those who claim status by stating they know more about 'the code' than anyone else. Perhaps Plato did use a code. So do a lot of us, in fact. It's called the alphabet, though I accept that's hardly a secret. How many of us understand complex mathematical equations? To some extent this sort of thing is down to misinterpretation and an innate desire for a mystery. So what was he keeping secret? His appointment schedule? His laundry list? A few notes for his next publication? Other than that, it's all cobblers.

Considering all the inventive ways that people might devise for torturing others with stakes and crosses, I wouldn't be surprised if using nails were only one of several options. Gunnar Samuelsson is from Sweden

It was a legal tradition that no-one should bear arms in the city of Rome. The Praetorians did but bear in mind they did not show them in open view. On duty they were dressed in togas with weapons concealed, rather like those black-suited security guards that hover around VIP's today. I doubt there was any requirement for territories beyond, but - And this is hypothetical because I haven't seen any evidence - it might be possible that from the Augustan Franchise onward, certain colonies or towns may have emulated Roman tradition in that way as well as impress the Senate with civic works. Any ban was unlikely to be across the entire empire but rather focused on local urban control. In fact, there is a story realted by one Roman who was drinking in a tavern when he heard a violent commotion outside. He grabs a sword - please note he was socialising with a weapon handy - and rushed outside to see if he could help or sort things out. Unluckily for him, an off-duty legionary was also doing the same thing, and spotted the gentleman carrying a sword. "What are you supposed to be then?" HE demanded. "Err... Oh.. I'm a legionary too." "Wearing slippers? Who are you trying to kid? Hand over that sword now!" And with that the embarrased storyteller does exactly as the soldier demands. He does so because the legionary might well turn on him - he's certainly acting in a threatening manner, and more than likely meant to sell the blade if it wasn't any use to him, but notice that there appears no actual bar on the ownership of weaponry by the public.

Would the Romans have bothered themselves particularly with removing nails? I'm not saying they didn't, I haven't the slightest idea about that, but it as a procedure to be carried out without fail after each and every crucifixion, it seems a little pedantic. Bear in mind that the Romans don't seem to mention iron shortages, or at leat I haven't found any references to one, and if an item is common, easy to get hold of, people generally develop a wasteful attitude. That said, if someone desperate for a few sestercii is going round retrieving nails from crucifixions, I doubt the method was all too important. Of course the body was generally given to the family following that particular death penalty which means it was taken down. I think the issue of nails is overstressed. I note that some researchers point to the fact that in places the human body doesn't readily support the total weight from a nail tacked through an extremity, and that it was more likely the criminal was tied to the cross to support him. The nail was driven in as a means of torture in that case, and removing the body wasn't really a matter of reverence. They might even have seperated the body from the cross with a measure of brute strength.

In the beginning, God said "Let there be light". And he saw that it was good. So good in fact that we human beings have invented little contrivances to achieve the same result ever since. First we invented fire (and what fun we've had with that!), and finally in the 21st century we've reached the very pinnacle of light engineering, that silly little thing screwed into the ceiling of my bathroom. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I'm not God, so now the blessed thing has stopped working. Also, being a mere mortal, the mysterious workings of this lighting device are beyond my experience, and lacking the divine ability to fix and create with a flick of my fingers, I popped down to the letting agent and asked if they could send a man to see to it. Not an emergency, of course, but when you have the time. They smiled and I parted in a good mood. The time and date was set - and no-one came. I exchanged a few mobile texts in which the contractor claimed I was not present, not listening, or not co-operating, but I answered all of those and he rang me eventually to set another time and date the following day. And no-one came. So the following morning I was straight down to the letting agents office to let them know that this was going on. They arranged another time that afternoon. "You will switch your phone on?" The lady asked as I was about to leave. The cheek of it! yes, the phone will be on. A little later than the specified time the contractor phoned me and told me his boy was outside knocking on the wrong door. Could I let him in? I assumed he meant my own premises and I duly went downstairs and opened the door. No-one there. Then a foreign handyman, a young polish lad of indifferent demeanour and speaking unexceptional pidgin english, popped his head out of the downstairs flat below where I live and told me he couldn't do anything because he didn't have the parts. What? But.... He buried his nose in his mobile phone and closed the door on me. I was infuriated. I called the maintenance department of the letting agent and related my woes. Actually I don't think they were all too suprised to hear my complaint and she dragged the contractor away from his coffee to speak to me. He rattled off apology No 34 and tried to get me to accept another time this morning. Oh? Can he get the parts to fix my bathroom light in 24 hours? I'm not falling for that one. I stopped him short and requested he arrive on the following Tuesday. That should give him enough time. He agreed to the time and date, possibly with witnesses at his end. Then he added "But I might not be able to turn up." I got annoyed. What is the point of setting a time and date for a repair if you've no intention of keeping it? I've sat there for three afternoons and all I've gotten so far is 'tough luck mate' and some guy airily telling me over the phone that he doesn't answer to me and doesn't like being spoken to in such a manner. Oh really? Then maybe a good policy might be to not fob off your customers. They're All At It, You Know At times like this I wish my title had some medieval authority. I'd have that idiot boiled in oil. Take a deep breath and forget the self-important cowboy the letting agent use for domestic repairs. It's still insufferably hot and I just can't be bothered to do anything but watch television. Good grief, I've watched more television in the last month than I have over the last year! It seems the channel lists have changed and I need to retune my receiver. Luckily my receiver was designed to be used by people over the age of nine and thus was a simple and quick procedure. Now I even more shop-at-home channels advertising great new gizmos that no home could possibly do without, and exactly the sort of item you stuff in the cupboard and never use twice. The energetic young american with a microphone headpiece (don't they have recording equipment in that tv studio?) is squeezing water from a piece of space age cloth that is apparently a miracle of science. Give me a break. The only miracle here is whether I'd part money for that tatty old rag. What a con.

Medusa is right in that simply because she was a well built lady she wasn't necessarily a gladiator. There are however some subtle indications, or sometimes, obvious evidence other than size. Were there signs of violent injury, especially those that had healed? Were either of her arms longer than another? Were her feet wider and flatter - a sure sign of frequent barefoot movement?

I've had a bit of an argument with someone. There's an american chappie on another website, who claims to be a pilot of fixed and rotary winged aeroplanes over fourteen years, who's said a few things that to me seemed casually ignorant. I do actually have some sympathy for Americans, I know they get a lot of stick, but then sometimes they really do ask for it and a few times in the past I've encountered their brash arrogance - or at least the behaviour we Brits see as such. I think sometimes they get a little bewildered by our differences in language and ettiquette. Who's right? Me or him? Well, I was trained as a pilot in Britain largely by a World War Two veteran, so naturally I can sleep safe in the knowledge that I fly the right way. There is a persistent point of view that "Americans can't fly". Actually, a great many of them can, but just as in any nation you will find good or bad pilots. I'm not the worlds greatest after all. Perhaps the most interesting real comparison was a chap who popped over from the States to give flying enthusiasts a lecture about his companies homebuilt aircraft range. He knew his subject. Clearly his knowledge of aeronautical engineering was well up to the job of building, or indeed selling, his companies products. The most telling thing though was when this Californian man was asked what he thought of flying in Britain. "Well..." He mused thoughtfully, "I sat as a passenger on a flight between the Isle of Wight - Is that the right name? - and Fairoaks. Heck, I was lost in the first ten minutes". My Very Own Aeroplane? People do get a litle suspicious about my claims sometimes. I understand their reasons. Maybe I just don't conform to their preconceptions of the sort of people who 'do' things, or that they cannot comprehend that someone they know has done something beyond their own horizons. What I never do is lie about it. As a child I was always imaginative. My desire to fly aeroplanes emerges from those early years, playing out battles with plastic kits and wondering what it would be like to fly those wonderful machines, never mind the inspiration of the books with page after page of exotic aircraft beyond my experience. As a schoolchild I designed a sidevalve V8 as a project for my technical drawing classes. As an engine, it was horribly crude and it's doubtful it would ever have run succesfully had some idiot actually decided to build it. But it kept me busy. And my teacher was more than happy about that. Then along came adolescence and my leanings toward aviation could not be contained. My creative instincts took over and I began doodling not only sleek and slippery shapes, but all those interior details that an aeroplane would need. Little by little a seed took hold, and without really understanding what I was taking on, I found myself developing a concept. An aeroplane design. My very own aeroplane. Ah yes. The "Mark One" as I called it. There was never any official designation. If I were honest it was merely an attempt to realise an adolescent daydream. The problem with making something real however is that daydreams make no account of the realities. In any case, it should be pointed out that a large proportion of designs never reach fruition even with aircraft manufacturers. It wasn't an especially ambitious design, just a single engined, two seat, low wing monoplane taildragger. Wooden frame, glassfibre skin, fixed undercarriage. I didn't like the typical 'club' trainers or the flashy teardrop 'cruiser' aeroplanes that were becoming the norm back in the seventies, and some of the american oddities like Jim Bede and Burt Rutans offspring, often featured in magazines, were viewed with increasing concern by officialdom. I think deep in my heart I wanted a substitute for warbird flying and at the same time the satisfaction that I'd created this thing myself. Unfortunately, even in the less stringent regulations of the time, my design fell outside the accepted categories. Of course I was only eighteen or nineteen years old. With no qualification or practical experience of aeronautical engineering, my design fell woefully short on overcoming some of the basic obstacles of system functionality, and I knew very little of the mathematics I would have needed to succesfully convince the Popular Flying Association that the design was airworthy. They set a higher standard than the EAA and for good reason. Back then I wasn't a pilot either, and my experience of aircraft was limited to that acquired as a member of the Air Training Corps. In retrospect, I have to accept I was being hopelessly naive. That said, I did make the effort. I learned a few things. There was a positive atmosphere in my life at that age. I remember one chap who was part of my cadet flight and in the year above me at the same school who'd managed to get a board game produced commercially. It all felt as if everything was possible if only you found the right door. In my case, I ldidn't know the right equations, and I didn't know anyone who did. Perhaps if I'd found an engineer who knew more about the practicalities of aviation then something might have emerged from that particular project. As it was I'd reached the point where even I realised it was going no further. It didn't matter. I'd left the air cadets, moving on to further education at college, and music was to become the major focus of my life for the next twelve or thirteen years. I was thirty one when I found the time and finance to qualify as a pilot. There was a brief flirtation with the PFA but had I found the money and workshop facilities to build an aeroplane for myself, I would have built an established design, which the PFA naturally encourage. If any paperwork concerning the my little "Mark One" survived the passing of time, it was sent to landfill eight years ago. My father was never a man to value paper you couldn't spend. I have this cute mental image of a seagull nesting in a ragged sun-bleached remnant of faded notes and diagrams with my name on them. You never know.

They say the weather is soon to change. The map on television shows a massive arc of light blue jerking across the Atlantic toward that tiny spot on the map where I live. As an indigineous englishman this can only mean one thing. Prepare to be dampened. That said, we brits tend to ignore such baleful warnings. How can it possibly rain? Look out the window - What a glorious day! Clearly then the english have a memory span of no more than a few days. Anything longer than that is a little hazy, a difficult nightmare we'd all rather forget in our hedonisitc urge to watch football, get drunk, and wake up beside camels the morning after. I mean, the population of Britain has just spent a fortune on multi-coloured knee-length shorts which are deemed appropriate apparel for summer days. It's no good, the omens are clear. This morning the clouds lie thick and heavy across the sky, though it is still a tad warm. But then... The weatherman said we should have had light showers last night, and we didn't. I mean, if they're wrong about that, then surely that expanse of blue stuff on the map isn't anything to worry about? How could such nice weather do that to us? This is the Wimbledon season - Since when does it rain at Wimbledon? The tennis authorities would never allow it. No, it's no good, I have to accept the inevitability of getting wet. It's what being British is about. So I glance around the library at everyone else in their lightweight summer garb and snigger darkly to myself. Because while they're all busy phoning their friends and arranging garden barbeques, they're not watching the news, and therefore don't know what's coming. Heh heh heh.... Bad News Actually watching the news on television right now is not an especially uplifting experience. Watching the funeral cortege inch forward through Wootton Bassett is of course a recognition of the loss of our servicemen abroad, but that's nothing to cheer about. Job losses, especially in the public sector, are expected to rise inexorably over the next few years as the price of our coalition governments austerity measures hit home. There's no guarantee yet I'll be allowed to live where I am now. I might well face benefit cuts in the near future and with bills rising steadily if not exponentionally, quite how I'll pay them is a matter of optimism. Now we have some guy claiming that we need to reduce the prison population. That would be nice, I suppose, and cheaper for the public in the long run, but doesn't that ignore the essential points? That prison is intended to punish illegal activity. Okay, rehabilitation has a purpose but you have to wonder how effective it is. The prison population is rising steadily. And with hardship becoming a part of British life in the next few years, the temptation to commit crime isn't going to go away. Neither is that black lady in the next cubicle. She sat down deeply engrossed in discussing the personal lives of her family on her mobile phone. No, I've had enough. I motion her her to stay silent. It was intended to a polite gesture but being a bolshy lady intent on pursuing her activity whatever the rest of the world thinks, she screwed her face up and made an incredulous statement that she can use her phone where-ever she likes. No, you can't. It's a library. She sneered and defiantly told me she would use her phone regardless, as if she had some personal right to intrude on everyone else. Okay, then I'll have see the librarian on the helpdesk, who turned out to a hesitant young man clearly qualing at the thought of tackling this afro-carribean Boudicaea. She described me as someone who must have been a snitch at school. That I told her to shush like a dog. That she uses her mobile phone everywhere. That I should tell her to be quiet on the street. When we part company as either of us finish our business on the PC, will she forget the confrontation, or will she make a snide comment? We will see, and in any case, I really don't want to meet this woman on the street for any reason. She's clearly bad news.

It's late at night and with the stale summer warmth, I just wasn't in the mood to do any more than vegetate in front of television. If ever a device was made for couch potatoes, that was it. Let's find something to watch. Channel 1... Nope. Channel 2... What? Who's interested in watching that? Channel 3.... I don't think so... And so on, until on one of the extra BBC channels I discovered a pleasant suprise. As chance would have it I stumbled upon a documentary, a rock-umentary if you will, detailing the sights, the sounds, and yes, the smells, of a hard working rock band. The band in question was Canada's very own Anvil, and with the program looking like a modern remake of Spinal Tap, I half wondered if this wasn't a spoof-umentary. Truth is, it brought back many memories of my own efforts in the music business. So let's take a trip back in time to witness one of our gig's in the north of England. A pretty typical day for Red Jasper. We all congregated in the village where the van was kept, parked outside a quiet local pub. It's an old Iveco, once a commercial bread van, now a somewhat rickety old machine that was painted an overall red with a white roof. Very Jasper indeed. With the bands equipment already in the back there's little packing for the trip to be done. Dave is fussing as he always does, striding back and forth in riding boots and fur lined bomber jacket, with a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Robin is standing around in a state of comatosed boredom, guitar in hand. Never leave home without it. Tony and his girlfriend are standing near to the van discussing where to sit. In the van might be a good idea. Anywhere will do, though inevitably they'll want to sit together. Tony was a man built for comfort and the looming possibility of having to rough it in the back was clearly on his mind. I had already taken my position as the driver. As usual, I was ready to go three hours before anyone else. Unfortunately the pub landlord has seen me. He rushed out to demand I park the van elsewhere. It seems our late arrivals in the wee small hours were a bit noisier than he could bear. I hate to admit it, but he has a point. Half the village must have been woken up by slamming doors and cheery goodbyes. Having been thoroughly admonished by the locals, I wait patiently for the band to get in. Jean, Daves partner and our reluctant sound engineer, was with Dave in the front. Robin grimaced as he got in the back. To be fair, it wasn't the discomfort that bothered him, more like my own devil-may-care driving. And off we went. The rule was that the driver decided which cassette tape as we travelled, which meant since I was driving, a heavy metal band was called for. I could hear Robin grinding his teeth in the gloom behind me. So with the maniac guitar solo's of Vinnie Vincent reducing the band to a state of psychological stress, we joined the motorway and began our cruise north. Aha! There's a petrol station. So we pull in for a refuel and a chance to escape Vinnie Vincent. Van refuelled, I switch on the engine, put it into gear, and... Huh?... The gear lever came off in my hand. Things usually fell off the Iveco from time to time, such as the side door once or twice, but this was a suprise. Jean was much amused by the expression on my face. No matter, the lever slotted in and away we went. Several miles further on I finally reached third gear. Quite an achievement with two tons in the back and one cylinder deceased. The gear lever came out in my hand again. This time, with the vehicle in motion, it was impossible to replace it. So we enjoyed a leisurely drive up the slow lane with half the cars in Britain queuing up behind us to get past. Yes. Thank you Sir... And you... At the next petrol station we pulled in. Jean flagged down a passing AA man (what knight of the road could resist coming to the aid of a dishevelled maid in distress) and he pinned the lever in place. "That repair will last longer than the van" He announced. He was proved right in the end. The journey was from there very ordibnary. We found the gig, found ourselves at the bottom of the bill, and after an argument with the event promoter decided it wasn't worth playing to a few stray hangers-on long after the headline act and their audience had gone home. So we drove back again. I have to say that usually we did play to a few stray hangers-on. Usually we got paid too. So I parked the van carefully outside the pub. We all whispered to one another, closing the doors as silently as possible. The bedroom lights of the pub went on. Uh-oh... He's woken up, quick, scarper.... Sweaty Night Of The Week Last night was impossibly hot. Yet for a short while, I found myself shivering in cold. What is going on? Either the local weather is going completely nuts, or my neighbour downstairs is playing with an air conditioner. Gasp.... Can't sleep.... Tired.... The sound of a door emanates from somewhere below. He kept that up nearly all night. Can't sleep either, mate? Read the instruction book, you wally...

Another day, another supermarket checkout queue. My local vendor has just had a refit, and in the name of progress has installed a number of those hateful automatic tills, so the shop can save money on staff wages. Strange thing is though they've had to keep people on the payroll to show us ordinary members of the public how these machines work. Every time I go there now a smiling happy shop assistant asks me if I want to try their gleaming new robots. I'm afraid to say their smile doesn't last too long. Neither did mine as it happens. As I was leaving a mocking voice cried out "All he does is daydream". I should know better than to be worried by mocking voices. Heaven knows I've heard a few in my time. Sometimes though, it happens in a place you've become accustomed to, and thus it becomes an intrusion into your safe little world. Of course I daydream. That's because I have a brain that still works. Unlike the moron whose only thrill in life is to disparage others. I remember a warehouse I used to work in, some years ago. Occaisionally people asked what I used to do before and inevitably the conversation got around to my time in the music business. To some extent I played the rock star, but in all honesty it was all tongue in cheek. Nonetheless, the more vocal of the workplace didn't like the idea that I was more famous than they were. That I'd actually done stuff in the past. That I wasn't observing the pecking order they'd established. So began a few years of scorn and disparagement. A few of my colleagues listened to my reminisences politely but the majority sided with the Big Mouths and treated my presence with almost contempt at times. It so happened one year the a charity 'Red Nose Day' would see a bunch of managers get together to form a band that would play a gig in the warehouse. Since their original choice of drummer was a guy whose musical ability was even less than his management skills, they decided to invite me in on the basis of the reputation I'd made for myself. It was all supposed to be a secret but inevitably someone found out. Some of the Big Mouths derided what I was doing - before they'd even heard it - whilst another was goading me to show off and thus invite even more derision. No. I'll stay quiet for now. You'll see when the time comes. Even with all the rumours of a band playing in the warehouse for Red Nose Day, when my fellow workers spotted me building the stage on the despatch floor I could sense that some were genuinely bewildered and gossip was spreading. The gig was a success. Not a long set - we were on stage for something like forty minutes and repeated one song as an encore - but that probably wasn't a bad thing. In keeping with their skills as managers, the performance as a band was a little shambolic. The best part was the silence the day after. A few congratulated me. Most congratulated the singer, whose unexpected ability behind the microphone impressed many of the staff. But the scorn had finished. There was a warehouse full of people who were embarrased to discover they'd been misled. And the quietest of all were the Big Mouths. What Daydreams Are Made Of Why the reminisences? Well, after the opinion expressed in the supermarket as I was leaving I could hardly be blamed for pointing out that more than once I've turned dreams into something a ittle more real, however modest or shortlived the result. GH, one of my colleagues at another workplace, once made a subtle suggestion that I should give up my ambitions. "You can always dream" He said, in an attempt to get me to settle for less than I wanted to be. I told him that unless there was a possibility the dream could happen, the dream would die anyway. And in any case, dreams happen for real if you make them happen. He didn't like that answer. It meant I still had ambitions beyond his control. It isn't always possible of course. Time and again I've heard celebrities telling the public that they should always chase their dreams. Since they happen to be among the minority whose dreams have become reality, they're bound to say things like that. Last night I was feeling a little fed up. Go on, Caldrail, treat yourself. So I thought I'd pop across the road for a bigger and better burger than my usual cheeseless wonders. Once I stepped inside a random group of unhappy kebab buyers quickly got around to discussing our bitter defeat in the World Cup at the hands of Germany. It only took one comment to start the conversation. Losing 4-1 to our european rivals was definitely a Dunkirk moment. I look forward to our team thrashing their backsides in Berlin by 2015. But I digress. On the counter was a CD. Being my usual curious self I picked it up for a quick inspection and immediately provoked a response. Last one left. Only seven pounds if I want it. It turns out that the chap I was talking to was a music promoter. How about that? It looks as if my astrological predictions are coming true after all. Just when you finally admit they're all talking rubbish, something happens. Funny that. A door to success or another blind alley? An opportunity or another daydream? Let's find out.

What is going on? Actually a few things here and there.. The 2010 Football World Cup in South Africa, the Wimbledon tennis tournament, and of course, the annual musical mud-fest of the Glastonbury Festival. As for the World Cup, football sucks. It really does. So if it wasn't for the match to be played later today, I wouldn't give a monkeys for how we do. Being drawn against traditional foe Germany is a matter of great importance. Certain niceties have to be observed and giving the Hun a darn good thrashing is a traditional English sport. Losing is not an option chaps. Don't come home without a victory. Wimbledon? Yawn. Wake me up when it's all over. I just can't get into this event at all. It's the intense seriousness, almost reverence, in which the way the game is conducted that puts me off. Besides, there's too much of a risk of hearing Cliff Richard perform live. The weather man yesterday was smiling as he shrugged helplessly. Today will be the hottest day of the year so far, and there's nothing viewers can do about it. Well, it is warm, it must be said. Women are adopting a uniform of skimpy white tee shirt, pink shorts, and hair tied behind their head. Men are adopting the standard long shorts and bright tee shirt draped over their sloping shoulders and bulging stomachs. Have you noticed the british male walks around with shoulders forward, as if trying to look larger and more muscular? So basically the usual summer stuff is going on. Streets are being bedecked with colourful banners in anticipation of community festivals, youths are sitting around playing guitar or playing with radio control cars, and generally shouting a lot at night. Hang on though. Something strange is going on. This is the weekend where music fans congregate at Glastonbury for the world famous festival of music and mud-wrestling. But here's no rain. Not a drop. You can't have mud without rain. Glastonbury? Without any mud? It's the end of the world as we know it. Get A Job Or Go Away I do not believe what I've just read. Our new coalition governmet is planning to relocate unemployed people in order to find them jobs. I see. So creating a healthy economy is too difficult? Oh hang on... They're looking at incentives to persuade people to be mobile rather than forcing them to be. For a moment there I saw myself as Arthur Dent, lying in front of the bulldozer that threatens to demolish his home, with a man from the council thoughtfully reminding him that the bulldozer won't be damaged at all if rolls right over him. I can see the sense in this initiative but then... Doesn't it assume that the unemployed people involved are actually looking for gainful employment? What happens to the individuals who clearly have no intention of doing a days work? Is it right to let them them stay where they are, or force them to move elsewhere, to pass the parcel onto another council? At what point do we grasp the nettle and tell someone they cannot choose anymore, and what does that say about our society?

What? Pass up a chance to do mad stunts on a motorbike?

Don't go looking for treasure in Swindon. That's the official word from the authorities. Not because you won't find anything, but because you might. It turns out that a burglar got away with more than four thousand pounds from a community centre and buried his stash in the woodland along a river that runs down the back of Liden estate. He was of course somewhat worse for suspicious substances when he hid his ill gotten gains, so now he's been apprehended and sobered up, he hasn't the slightest idea where the money is. The authorities, who are keen for the public not to go looking for it, have told the public that money is buried there. Oh by the way, the money belongs to the insurance company, so no sneaking out there with a shovel, okay? My Stars The sun is pushing you to the fore. But this may require you to step outside your comfort zone. Comfort zone? What comfort zone? To be honest, I'm not finding life all that comfortable right now, and as I sit here at a library computer, I've got two asian gentlemen chanting incoherently in the next cubicle. That is so annoying! I feel the urge to lift a baseball bat. Must be the suns influence... Keeping Up With The Caldrails There's a new lord in Swindon. No, not me, I've been there for five months or so already, though I do seem to have started a trend. This one's Lord of North Swindon and Woodside Park. I see he's a former Minister of Parliament. Oh dear, has he lost his job? Well I hope he doesn't have to claim benefits from the Department of Work and Pensions Job Centre in Swindon any time soon. They don't like noble titles in there.

Training animals to fight wasn't always succesful. Titus was embarrased during the inaugral games because the terrified lions released into the arena slunk back into the exits. He had the trainer executed. Bestiarii were employed not only as animals fighters but also as wardens to keep animals in the fray, prodding them on with spears. Yes, animals were routinely starved as a motivation but I did read somewhere that carnivorous beasts were introduced to human flesh to give them a taste for it! That raises all sorts of gruesome questions but I haven't seen any real evidence for that practice.

There's little or no historical evidence that legates conducted themselves in this way. Roman commanders were more proactive. Julius Caesar sometimes fought in the front line during a battle, which means he could hardly direct his troops. It's a mistake to assume that the Romans were relying on a system of messengers to adapt to circumstance - the sources make little mention of such things and the events during battles indicates that battlefield command really wasn't that sophisticated in this era. Remember that the Romans believed in personal virtue. A commander might not always live up to that image, but in general, he should at least make the attempt. If your troops are wavering at one point and other officers are busy, what use is sending a messenger asking them to stay in the line? That commander would need to get down there and show leadership. It was a matter of urgency that required initiative, not a secretary. Also you realise that with predominantly infantry armies the Romans preferred a relatively compact deployment for mutual support, whereas in later eras larger armies might be spread out for some distance. That said, the role of the optio in battle was a supportive one. Yes, he was there to back up the centutrion and replace him as commander if necessary. I have read that he was usually stationed at the rear of the century to provide the moral support. But that's no guarantee he wouldn't be injured by missiles, nor that his presence would be enough to stop a rout when morale faltered. We're talking about troops belonging to a culture that relied on brute force and despite the sword training soldiers received, there's very little in the way of 'martial arts' about their fighting. It was blood and guts melee, although the Roman style was closer to bayonet fighting than the wilder swings of their barbarian opponents. Decreasing reserves? That's only true if you're fighting opponents of the same size as before. The tactical situation of the late empire was usually different. Although the barbarians were becoming more co-ordinated in their efforts to grab what they could from the Romans, we don't read of their raiding parties becoming appreciably larger in size. 'First spear' and senior centurions fought in the front rank? I imagine they would have. The whole point of their status was to provide leadership in battle. As Julius Caesar knew well, Roman soldiers respond better to leaders who share in their labour (Plutarch tells us that too) and since the role of centurion was less like a modern sergeant-major and more like a tribal chief, leading by example was a primary method of motivating the men in combat. It does work too. Even the experience of recent conflicts demonstrates that leaders right at the sharp end generally get better performance from their men. Now as to cohorts being a regimental type of unit - no. It was a subdivision of the legion intended both for administration and convenience of size on the field of battle. The Romans were very keen on organisation and thus it's inevitable they divided their troops with some formality. Many people will dismiss what I say about the nature of Roman legions. There's a number of reasons for that. What I say might seem outlandish, unexpected. It opposes conventional wisdom or the popular image of Roman legions as an unstoppable military machine. The problem as I see it is our own experience. We observe the world around us and up to a point understand it. It's familiar to us. If you look back at historians of former times, when they discuss the Roman legions they invariably do so in the light of their understanding of how warfare was conducted in their day. What happens is that we 'pattern recognise'. It's a perceptual feature of human beings. It's how we interpret the information from our senses. We recognise certain aspects of the Roman military and immediately latch on to them. It certainly is true they did some things that were similar or parallel to modern methods - there are methodologies that will always work with human physchology and social behaviour, whatever the cultural trappings - yet this recognition is blinding us to some of the important differences. I spoke to a re-enactor a couple of years ago. We had a fascinating conversation about legionary stuff, but try as I might, his answer to my criticism was that he still thought the Roman legions were pretty much the same as a modern army. He says that because he understands how modern armies work and has focused on the similarities with the Romans in order to understand them. Despite his informed opinion, we cannot dismiss the fact the Romans lived around two thousand years ago with a culture that emerged from primitive origins in situ, as opposed to the polyglot basis of our own. They developed their levies of armed men on a principle of tribal warfare dating back to their iron-age origins. Even the legions of the Principate bear the hallmarks of it. The Romans of that period have no national army. There is no umbrella organisation linking the various legions together or co-ordinating their efforts. Instead of a pyramid structure, they adopt an almost modular, feudal, and very direct 'warband' philosophy. Now that doesn't mean the behaviour of officers, or even centurions, was especially primitive. Many of the centurionate went on to political success in later life. What I mean is that the centurions role was not as a layer of authority within a pyramid of status and responsibility, but rather as a minor warlord indentured into military service with perks attached. It was the centurion, not his senior offficers, who decided on a day to day basis whether his men were guilty of infractions. He decided whether to punish his men accordingly. They were 'his' lads. He was the boss of his century. So polarised was their authority that legionaries are recorded as refusing the orders of centurions from other formations. That doesn't exclude senior officer status. With Roman social order and passion for organisation, naturally the centurion has no choice but to defer to his superiors when commanded to do so. At the same time, the senior officers rely on the centurions. That's one reason why, as a class of junior officer, centurions were under no compulsion to retire. They could serve as long as they wanted and some did indeed serve all their active lives.

Oh no. Not this episode again! I enjoy a spot of Star Trek in the afternoons when I've nothing better to do ,but some episodes really don't have any lasting appeal. I remember seeing an interview with Jonathon Frakes ('Will Riker' in the Star Trek: Next Generation) in which he extolled the virtues of the genre, and in particular, he stressed the ability of the format to describe moral messages. He might be right, but unfortunately it's exactly those episodes that pall with familiarity. You see - We humans like to be entertained. We want drama, excitement, suspense, horror, tragedy, and a few laughs along the way. Whilst moral messages are often very clever, meaningful even, they don't entertain. Do I really want to sit through this episode? No. The moral message was taken in the first time I saw it. I hate to admit it, but I really do want something better to do this afternoon. Down By The Lakeside I chose to spend a few hours lounging by the lower lake at Lawns Wood. What is this life if we have no time to stand and stare? So at a quiet and shadey spot I sat down to watch the world swim by. Whenever the sun broke out from behind the heavy cloud, patterns of reflected light played across the underside of the overhanging tree canopy. It makes a fascinating display. The local birdlife had felt the relaxed mood of the afternoon too. Out on the water, a variety of waterfowl bobbed up and down, their heads resting on their backs. Why is it that so many seabirds are white? Is that some hangover from the Ice Ages? When the entire region was arctic in scope? It's also a strange thought that recent fossil evidence shows many of the birds floating out on the water are the same species that relaxed in the Cretaceous mid-afternoon, swimming alongside Hadrosaurs in the shallow wetlands of low lying regions. A group of Coots congregated over some morsel. A pair of adventurous and quite fearless ducklings, about half their size, swam across under the watchful gaze of their mother, to grab their share. It was a dead fish, floating on it's side, and despite the attention it received, none of the birds that took an interest seemed to stay long or get any sustenance from it. Everything changed when two schoolgirls wandered along the path after the school nearby had finished for the day. They were throwing breadcrumbs, and instantly the sleeping birds were alive, rushing for their chance to feed. The little ducklings made frantic efforts to be first in the queue. One duck follows the girls down the path, determined to obtain more than their fair share of bread. A pair of breeding swans and their retinue of obedient grey cygnets swam slowly by. Swans gllide through the water at a gentle pace, one strong push from their flippers sending them five or six feet forward at a time. Both adults held their wings at the ready. Swams are not easily intimidated and on rare occaisions become violent, easily capable of injuring a human with those powerful wings. So when their family floated past my spot very close, I kept a wary watch on them as they kept an equally wary watch on me. Not all birds like the company of human beings. Eventually the noise and activity from the shoolgirls was too much for a certain bird to bear. A large grey and white crane burst out of the lakeside foliage not seven or eight feet from where I sat. I hadn't even realised it was there. It flew back along the lake shortly after. What graceful and effortless flyers they are. I can see why the japanese always admired this bird. I think I made the right choice this afternoon. Sat by the water in relaxed contemplation, all your cares and worries seem trivial. Oh hang on... Somethings coming... There Goes The Neighbourhood By late afternoon the youth element tends to congregate in such public spaces and the mood changes. A group pass by with their 'drug-dealer' dogs, short-faced thick-set animals that burst into my quiet corner of the natural world like brash gatecrashers at a well behaved party. Time to go home. Before those darn dogs gleefully dispose of their load of lakewater all over me.

Stirrups didn't reach europe until the 6th century. Bear in mind that the Romans were never great cavalrymen and that their traditional four-pronged saddle supported the rider adequately. Even if Aetius encountered primitve rope stirrups, it's unlikely he saw any real advantage to them. The ability of the huns as riders was a matter of skill rather than equipment. Regarding the fabricae, the addition of carbon to iron in the manufacturing process was incidential - though it's possible the more observant metal workers realised there was a connection between the two materials in making steel weapons. No evidence? The Romans pointed at spanish swords in the accounts of the Hannabalic Wars and tell us that the test of a superior sword was to lay it on the head and pull the extremities down onto the shoulders and then have it spring back into shape. That's the behaviour of 'spring steel' rather than ductile milder steels, and iron might well simply snap if so used.

It's well past midnight as I sit at home typing this blog entry. The passing revellers have long since sung their way home, but then, this is mid-week, so there was never going to be as many of them as friday or saturday night. The street remains silent in its orange-toned illumination. Only an occaisional car driving by with a low pitched swish interrupts the calm. Apart from the car that's just gone up the hill that is, revving the nuts off his engine in wild abandon. By now I doubt that's going to bother many people. Even the couple across the road have retired for the night. You can only have so much sex before you get tired. Only members of the Rolling Stones are allowed to without sleep. In between cars the only sound is my faithful electric fan, whirring away with barely audible rattles. The movement of air is oddly chilling. With the room so warm you'd thing the fan would make little difference. The reason for that, as I discovered on a foray to back of the house, is that the night air is not the steamy summer evening I was expecting. A definite breath of wind makes it instantly chilly. Not a breeze, just a casual drift of air molecules that makes the temperature feel so much worse than it actually is. I stood looking out the back window for a while. By now the urban foxes living in the old college site should have begun yelping and screaching. Even they're quiet, though I wonder if the impending demolition of the site has meant the animals have already been disposed of by pest controllers. I listen out for those distant yells you sometimes hear in the dead of night, the last few stragglers too drunk to find their way home and wandering around making a nuisance of themselves. I can't hear any echoes of their nocturnal arguments with inanimate objects. One hopes the pest controllers have seen to them as well. Teeth Check I don't often go to the dentist these days, but sometimes you do start to wonder if you're suffering health problems and when that happens, the only recourse is to see a specialist. So when I got it into my head that I might be suffering from a developing abcess, I popped down there post haste. It was all very polite, professional, and painful, as all visits to the dentist were intended to be. For all the modern gizmos they use these days like x-ray machines, hand cameras, and so forth, there's something wonderfully medieval about dentistry. So after half an hour on the rack and feeling no taller, I went away with my free pack of leeches... Ahhh, I mean toothpaste. But at least there's no abcess, and in fact the dentist was impressed by my gnashers, however horrific they looked to me in the images displayed on his dentistry imaging software. My dentist is however a private practioner, as opposed to a National Health one. That isn't anything to do with snobbery or status, but rather the current state of affairs. Although the governments of our day expect you to pay National Insurance to cover these health bills, there's precious few places for people to enjoy that privilege. So you can imagine my relief at discovering I can still chomp away without dentures. I can sleep safe in my bed tonight.

That depends on various factors. The legions of the classic period evolved to meet tactical requirements. It was a descendant of their earliest warbands rather than than a formal grouping of disparate units as the late empire was (or indeed, modern armies) thus the century, as a fundamental tactical unit, was actually no different in concept than the barbarian horde it faced, except that it was better organised. In other words, the centurion was the 'tough guy', the leader of the pack, the alpha warrior. The Romans depended on the centurionate to maintain tradition and good order in the ranks. However, the Romans also encountered a need to fight large set-piece battles when confronting organised nations in the course of their expansion. Therefore their 'warband' legions expanded in size to become what they considered the most convenient for that purpose. Although the legion of around 6000 men was ostensibly loyal to Rome, it was in fact organised as a semi-independent warband of larger size, despite the categories and ranks ordained by the Romans to make sure it all functioned well. This is where the comparison with modern armies fall down. Modern forces are groupings of specialist units of varying size that require an overall command structure. For much of their history, the Romans had no need of this 'pyramid' style structure, though one might be forgiven for believing that the independent nature of the legions was one reason why they were so prone to rebellion. The soldiers were after all more often loyal to their generals than the Roman state. Please realise that the Romans had no telecommunications. This was an era when battle strategy was decided before the fighting began. If you needed to change your plan in mid-flow, you had a real problem on your hands. We know they developed signalling to a high degree, yet that was tailored for communication between fixed sites, not mobile elements. From accounts left by the Romans themselves, there's little real communication between commander and his various units. Of course sometimes they sent couriers or runners, but there was nothing like the network of communication we see in the 'horse and musket' period. Far from it. By grouping more men under one commander, you may well find your communications the worst obstacle to overcome. Roman elements were expected to act on their own, even when part of a larger legion, and actually the defeat at Cannae was partially down to this methodology - when the Roman centuries along the edges of the quincunx formation realised they were passing the enemy on their flank, they turned and halted, thus disrupting the overall formation before the trap was closed. The legion was after all an army in its own right, not a regiment as it we often see it today. There was no national Roman army in the classic period, but instead, a whole gang of them. It was only in the late empire, with larger numbers of smaller specialist legions, and a more widespread security problem strategically, that we see the Romans developing a regimental system to cope. In terms of use on the field of battle, centurions were expected to use their intiative in defeating the enemy. We see accounts of this factor here and there. That said, since centurions invariably 'led from the front' and were often among the dead in battle, we see potential weaknesses in this 'alpha male' setup. These commanders might well be be too busy to observe and react (that's why senior officers tended to range behind the line, keeping men from retreating or ordering reactions to enemy movements as required, acting as the eyes and ears of centurions otherwise occupied) It's also noteworthy that Roman soldiers show little capacity for initiative in battle, almost dull-witted. Josephus records how careless the men were at the siege of Jerusalem, and how Titus became furious at the lack of security. There's also a nice tale of a jewish boy who pleaded to be allowed to use a well. The Roman soldiers okayed that, then saw him running off with a bucket toward the city. Now as to your question - is it better to keep centuries together? Sometimes, yes. It depends on how much tactical flexibility you need or how large the enemy forces were. There's also a need to practice drill in large formations. One reason for the defeat at Adrianople in 378 was the lack of experience in large battles - the Romans had forgotten this expertise long before. Then again, large units are unwieldy and lack the mobility of smaller groups. In the faster paced campaigning of the late empire smaller groupings were better suited overall, and battles like Adrianople something of an exception. There are strategic considerations too. If all your centuries are in one place, how do you stop small bands of raiders in more than one location? If all your centuries belong to one commander, can he keep track of his units and use them effectively over a smaller or wider area?

Sorry Cinzia, I missed this post. Good question. Actually the need to stockpile materials isn't what you might imagine. For much of the time the world is at peace, everyone is equipped, and the campaigning season only lasts six to eight months. Factories (called fabricae) only emerge in Roman culture in the late empire, and then only because the tax regime precludes the personal purchase of weapons - never mind the unenthusiastic soldiery of the time) For most of the Roman period, if large numbers of weapons were required, then local smiths were asked or required to produce them. So unless materials could be acquired quickly, it was a matter of 'while stocks last', and perhaps having to travel further afield to find more artisans if the material shortages emerged. It is possible that sometimes the Romans arranged for materials to be provided for large item orders but in all honesty, I haven't seen any evidence of that. Given the numbers of weapons manufactured I would suspect that some weapon-smiths premises must have resembled small primitive factories anyway, but I'm not sure how much material they would have stockpiled for a rainy day. Those were valuable commodities to the Romans, and sat there inert, earning nothing for their owners.

Yet another day of unadulterated sunshine. I suppose it's politically correct to thank the internal combustion engine for this, but since car sales are struggling right now, I can't help wondering if I was right all along. That the weather isn't as affected by the motor car as the eco-concious and vote hungry politicians would have us believe. This bright weather seems to be moderating driver behaviour too. Fewer drivers are accelerating madly down the local roads in a mad attempt to practice drag racing at Santa Pod, but instead are observing the traffic lights anbd slowing down calmly and orderly. What is going on here? It must be the relaxing mood the weather is generating. British drivers are not known for being mild, though in fairness they're hardly the worst in the world. Some drivers are a little too relaxed however. On a two lane road just around the corner from the library, a hatchback slowly leaves the left lane to take the right exit, causing a momentary auditory assault from the driver they just cut across. Both cars sit there a moment. One driver furious and gesticulating, the other bewildered and outraged he was being treated in this manner. Pistols or swords, gentlemen? Both vehicles move away, both drivers seething. Come on guys, everyone else is having a great time. Chill out. Then again, when the sun goes down and the younger element take the streets, the driving will be right back where it was. Doppler shifted thuds louder than the harsh engine tone as they speed by, punctuatued by an occaisional pfishhhhh! from the turbocharger. Motorbikes simulating the noise of a Grand Prix pit lane. More rarely, a loud electronic woooh! from a police car siren to warn someone or other that they're being watched. It's hard to escape from that noise. With the weather so warm I have no recourse but to open the windows. The people across the road still don't draw their curtains of course and every so often I glimpse another exciting episode of their personal lives. Oooh look they're having sex again. In this heat? The woman knows I can see her and clearly gets annoyed that she's making a public display of her night time activity. One wonders why she doesn't close the blinds and keep it private. Or why no-one ever complains about her activities. How To Have Fun Whilst Drunk The Aussies are well known for their macho lifestyles and attitudes, but now they shoot each other for fun. Two drunken australians shot each in the buttocks with air rifles in a drunken spree. They thought it would be fun to see if it hurt. Maybe I need to stay off the Fosters for a while. FLY! I remember a canadian cartoon aired on television decades ago. It described the attempts through history of Mankinds attempt to achieve flight. Cavemen, medieval monks - all would ascend a high place and then get kicked off with the command "FLY!". And of course it all ended in dismal failure. But eventually Man learns to fly. We see a holiday maker walking through an airport terminal, out toward his aeroplane, ascending the steps, and then being kicked off the end with a yelled order "FLY!". It was funny, really. There's an annual event in Britain where people build their own flying devices and attempt to fly by jumping of a pier, ending up dunked in the sea regardless of effort or ingenuity. Now the Ukranians are doing the same in Kiev, falling into the canal one after the other. Scientists reckon we have 4% neanderthal genese in our blood. I reckon we have 96% Lemming.

Iron isn't well suited to military use, being a relatively brittle material. Swords made of iron would readily snap for instance. As for Milners rationalisation, I would be wary of assuming that the quotation means 'iron and steel'. Tempering is a treatment of metal intended to improve its qualities, and iron isn't tempered as a rule - I don't think it ever was as a standard practice. What it probably does refer to is ductile or hard material qualities. The writer used the phrase 'iron' because he didn't know any better. Steel is not manufactured for sale as a commodity in the ancient world - there are no steel mills until the Industrial Revolution - but that iron is a saleable commodity and 'steel' is created from it during the item manufacture process on a local individual basis, assuming the artisan had a forge capable of generated the temperatures needed and had the requisite skill, which I assume many did, because otherwise the Romans would not have been using Noric steel for instance.