caldrail

That would depend on the size of the barbarian horde and the tactics employed. The Romans found that the smaller legion sized worked well for them. Remember that a single commander can only really control a certain size of unit before his corders go unheard and chaos takes hold - the Romans found a century was the largest convenient unit for that and I suspect barbarians had similar problems regardless of discipline and drill issues. So even if a barbarian unit was larger, the lack of coherent manoever would compensate. Typically barbrian units were rather similar to modern rioters in behaviour once the initial stand-off was over. The gauls of Caesars time and the goths of later years both seem to have behaved in this fashion. Lots of yelling, shouting, and the braver souls making individual assaults on the Roman formation, with the bulk closing in when they sense a possible victory. Adrianople shows this - Marcellinus describes the constant forays made by gothic warriors as well as the steady use of arrows, spears, and darts to whittle down the Romans, whose army had been contained in a tight disordered mass when their own discipline had faltered. Incidentially, there's an account of an incident in Germania during the late empire in which a unit goes rogue (and the writer is very matter-of-fact about it - not astounded or outraged by their behaviour) and attacks local german villages for the purposes of looting. They use their shields as floatation devices, and swam across rivers to launch what appears to us to be a parallel of the modern special forces raid.

We know that legionary and gladiatorial equipment went through similar changes in form during the course of the early and mid-empire, so it appears that some changes were driven by cultural leanings. Overall the changes were due to fashion and experience in the field then, plus the inclination of whoever ordered the shields manufacture and the makers responsible for producing them as regards quality anf form. It was, in other words, a combination of circumstance, experiment, and procurement decision.

Auxillaries fought where-ever they were ordered to, not necessarily in terrain unsuited to legionary close order tactics and bear in mind these legions didn't always fight in terrain best suited to them. but essentially you're corrct. Mobile, open order fighting tends to result in smaller lighter shields, whilst close order formations tend to rsult in larger shields more suited to creating 'walls' for protection. Also bear in mind that the later legionaries did fight in close formation sometimes. The famous testudo formation was still part of late imperial drill. For the Romans, the earliest shields weren't round, as might be expected, but leaf shaped, and the longer axis of a shield is a persistent feature of these defensive items. The idea is a compromise between full body body protection and weight. This accounts for the enduring popularity of the oval shape. The 'rounded rectangle' offers better protection all round with a lessened possibility of injuring the user by inadvertant contact with the corners during combat. In fact, it might be the case that the square or rectabgular shields eventually fell into disuse for that very reason. Of course the oval shape is also less of an obstacle for fighting.

According to The Prehistory of Britain and Ireland (Richard Bradley), Ireland was already an island by the time the English Channel formed. The first settlements formed by men arriving by boat appear to begin around 8000BC. This was an era when Doggerland (basically the bed of the North Sea before rising sea levels inundated it) still existed but was becoming prone to tidal flooding.

The good professor focuses on steel production and ignores the examples of steel produced crudely and individually from as early as 4000 years ago in Turkey. The Romans themselves referred to steel, and I notice they describe the qualities of the best spanish swords whose tradition of steel manufacture goes back to at least the 4th century BC.

Most of you haven't been to our central library. Partly that's because most of you live in better parts of the world, but mostly because it's also somewhere I go to hang out. As a regular visitor to the library you'd think the librarians would know me by now. One does. He's the chap who signed as a witness to my elevation to lordship. Always gives me a cheery nod as he walks by. What a nice chap. On the other hand, there's a lady who was working behind the help desk when I strode in yesterday. My incessant requests for obscure reference works that have long since self-combusted brought her to the point of a tantrum at least once. Nonetheless she's always cheery and polite. So when she realised I was standing there, she smiled nd asked if she could help. You have to understand that the library does not realise that the world communicates via the World Wide Web.. They seem to have their own technology and internet protocols that bear no relation to anyone elses. Time and again I can't access a site or a service because it might harm little children. It's as if they expect you to access the internet for certain specific reasons, such local community services or perhaps tracing your ancestors, as if any of my ancestors ever came anywhere near Swindon or managed to get the council to do anything except throw a form at them. So when I popped into the library yesterday, I strode toward the help desk intent on asking them to allow me access to a site about world war two aeroplanes. How could that possibly harm children? The first thing was to ask for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. She ummed and ahhed and eventually allowed me to recover the pencil lodged in the bottom of a plastic holder. Suitably armed with writing implements, I proceeded to write out the information she would later send up to the libraries mysterious and reclusive I.T. experts. They never show themselves in public. I have this image of unkempt nerds kept chained in a straw filled cell, sweating over hot computers for hours on end with security guards goading them on with leather whips. No-one, and I mean no-one, ever goes up to the forbidden third floor. Information provided, I made the request. She glanced through the pencil scribbles and asked "Lord?... What's that?" Oh that's me. That's my name. With a subdued look of incredulity mixed with horror she quickly recovered her composure and apologised that she would have to send it to her prison... Erm... I.T. department upstairs. Good. Job done. She left the premises soon after, no doubt keen to be well clear of this nutcase who thinks he's a noble and sends her on impossible missions should she choose to accept them. There she is this morning, chatting to her colleague on duty at the desk. It might be just me, but I think I managed to get a mention dispatches. And no cheery wave either. Get Yer Back Into It! Yesterday I saw the first attempt at demolishing the old college site. A chap in a white tee shirt and shorts ran up the pavement, stopped, then leant forward against the painted plywood security fence as if to push it over. He failed, and continued on his way to report that demolition machinery or explosives would be needed. If only I had a camera with me. You wouldn't believe how ridiculous that looked.

The square and curved scutum is first depicted on a tomb dedicated to Munatius Plancus at Gaeta, dated to 10BC. It was a development of republican shields of a similar but taller pattern mentioned by Polybius as being in use with hastatii in the second century BC. The classic imperial scutum actually had a short life, going out of use sometime around the start of the 2nd century and never completely supplanted the more usual oval or 'rounded rectangular' type.which remained as the standard shield patterns afterward. Flirtations with polygonal shields happened intermittently, most notably during the reign of Tiberius, but archaeological evidence point to hexagonal shields in use as early as the second century BC too.

Some ago a religious leader decided that nations should submit to the authority of his faith. National leaders who opposed his initiatives were blacklisted, denied their spiritual welfare. The common people were enticed to believe without question what their priests were telling them. It all happened nine hundred years ago and resulted in the first crusades. Sometimes I watch Russia Today on television. Not because of any communist sympathy, but simply because you get a different viewpoint than the western media and some very interesting mini-documentaries about various issues. Last night they did one about christian fundamentalism. I've been warning people about that on the internet for more than a decade. It seems one chap called Adams has done the same to a larger audience for quarter of a century. He referred to them as christian fascists. It's a very apt description. We're living in the final days before eternity? Implicit in modern christian fundamentalism is the idea that Jesus is cioming back, his arrival is imminent, and that the faithful will ascend to heaven and leave us poor sinners behind to suffer all manner of nasty 'orrible things. These ideas are nothing new. Religious cults have been prophesying messiahs and paradise for a very long time throughout history, and it seems there's a large part of society that finds itself easily swayed by these emotional calls for obedience. There's a company in America called Left Behind Inc. They have an annual turnover of millions of dollars, based on the message that if you don't sign up for Jesus, you will be left behind when this supposed great day occurs. Some are even beginning to say that christians can influence when Jesus returns. The Book of Revelations is paraded in front of us with dire warnings about what is to come. And of course, promises of nice things if you sign up. Christianity hasn't changed since the Middle Ages. It still wants emotional and political power, and works toward that end. It comes as no suprise to me that the Pope has been embarrased by revelations of child abuse amongst his priests, or that a bible bashing right wing preacher was uncovered as a closet homosexual. Hang on a moment... If these people are saying one thing and doing another - isn't that breaking their own Ten Commandments? If they're revealed as sinners, will they be left behind when Jesus drops by to collect his faithful? Or does keeping quiet guarantee your seat on the bus to paradise? Sorry, but Jesus is dead. The Romans executed him. It says so in the Bible. Contrary to christian dogma there's no evidence that bodies can come back to life. Nor is their any convincing argument in favour of reincarnation. Nor is their any evidence whatsoever that our modern era is any worse than others in history, and no reason to believe that the call to arms against the Romans written in Nero's day by a Jewish refugee has any relevance whatsoever to our time. But then, people do like myths and prophecies. Jesus - Man Or Messiah? I'm sorry. I just cannot believe Jesus was anything other than an ordinary if charismatic and misguiding person. Some time ago I passed a preacher in the street. "Jesus led a perfect life!" He proclaimed. Has he ever read the Bible? Jesus comes across as someone with a bit of a temper, socialist tendencies, and despite the hype contained in the New testament failed utterly to bring about his desired change in society. Then again, christians have answers for those criticisms. If there's anything a christian can do, it's make excuses and twist arguments in their favour, however ridiculous it actually is. Man or Messiah? He's whatever his believers imagine him to be. John Wayne may have proclaimed him to be truly the son of god, but then, he was reading from a film script. Conquer In The Name Of This? More worrying is the trend toward christian militancy. The documentary on Russia Today pointed at the increasing indoctrination of american soldiers to these beliefs, and that senior officers, politicians, and preachers are not shy of proclaiming that God has chosen America as his weapon of conquest. That's the crusades, all over again. It just goes to show that humans haven't changed a bit. luckily there are still those with clearer heads. There's even been legal action mounted to prevent soldiers in the american armed forces from being forced to worship Jesus in this manner.To choose a faith of your own volition is one thing, but to be told to worship as a requirement is tyranny. Pure and simple. After all, weren't the Israelites supposed to be his chosen people? Since when did America assume that role? Like the Romans long ago, some americans sense their power and relish the thought of an empire without limits in space or time. A lady in the street once tried to stop me passing by. She claimed that christianity had 'such a lovely message'. Like what? Go forth and conquer? It's been done before lady, and look what a mess that caused. Sorry, but I'm leaving you behind.

This is the view from a factory chimney, looking toward the town of Somato nestling in the valley below. It all happened here. I was back at HQ when the radio message came in. A recon patrol had ventured out as far as Somato, and stumbled on an enemy stronghold. Coming under fire their squad leader had been killed. They were pinned down on that wooded hill, just to the left of the town, and needed help. I was available so I gathered a few troops, an available truck, and headed out across the Sierra Madre mountain roads. With the war situation currently so fluid, this was bandit country, and the thought of bumping into an advancing T-72 tank didn't bear thinking about. As it turned out, we reached a small village without incident. Leaving the truck there we continued on foot. The sound of enemy helicopters could be heard long before the recon patrol identified the threat they were facing. Those aerial gunships pack terrible firepower. My advance was becoming more cautious. I sent a radio message to the patrol to find cover and sit tight. The helicopters had failed to spot our beleaguered soldiers on the wooded hillside. We found them, and discussed the possibility of taking the town instead of simply creeping away with our tails between our legs. As is the nature of soldierng, we decided to risk it. There were a number of enemy soldiers loitering in the area next to the hill, a loose cordon of men guarding the edge of the town. Going around either side was risky in itself as the road through Somato was alive with supply trucks going from one enemy post to another. A direct assault was agreed. When we began to open fire, the enemy reacted slowly. One soldier collapsed backward, the others looking about in suprise. Once that suprise had worn off, they ran here and there, searching for our position and trying to avoid the gunfire, a staccato rattle of NATO calibre ammunition. Their NCO's called out instructions, and before long they zeroed in our position, bringing down accurate small arms fire that took out two of my men. From there it developed into a cat and mouse game between opposing squads. Moving from corner to corner, wall to wall, bush to bush. I ran toward a town square and realised I was in the midst of enemy soldiers grouping for an attack. I quickly found a stone stairway and used the parapet for cover. Two rifle grenades hit my defensive wall, loud crumps and plenty of debris bouncing around the narrow stairwell. An enemy soldier reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to fire, but he wasn't quick enough. I was exactly where I didn't want to be. Pinned down amongst the enemy. This was of course merely a game. Unlike many 'soldier-sims', this particular one has none of the hyped up 'world terrorism' or science fiction background you usually get, but instead seeks to simulate modern soldiering. Does it succeed? Well obviously the risk of death and injury is only virtual, and even then, I get respawned back at base to fight again. It does seem an odd way to relax for an hour or two, but it's only game after all. There will be those who sneer and suggest I should do this sort of thing for real. I do understand that point. Our freedom is enjoyed because others have taken the risks to preserve it. Not everyone is cut out to be a warrior. That's why I support their efforts from the sidelines. But the moral implications of playing these games means very little to me. It just isn't real. Time then to switch off and go back to writing job applications. Now there's a battle. Pic of the Day What? You think I tried to cross that? What am I , Rambo? Get a life. Found this little dam out on my exploration of Mouldon Hill. In Darkest Wiltshire, beavers use stone. Here's the evidence.

Stonehenge has always been something of a mystery. You can almost guarantee your local bookstore contains works that describe various theories, some quite outlandish, to describe the reason this place was constructed. Television too frequently shows documentaries and I caught the most recent one last night. The prevailing theories had revolved around questions of life and death. It's believed that processions of worshippers followed the river from nearby Woodhenge and on to the stone ring at Stonehenge as part of a veneration of the dead. That would indicate that Woodhenge was possibly a place where the dead were left to decay and then gathered to be laid to rest elsewhere. The surrounding archaeology supported this theory. There's even signs of a large temporary community surrounding the site. Now it appears another theory suggests that Stonehenge was a place of healing. It revolves around the bluestones, associated with marking out springs and their supposed health giving nature, rather than the taller and more magnificent sarsen stone columns and lintels. Stonehenge was after all initially a ring of bluestones. Furthermore, there's some evidence now that people travelled to Stonehenge from mainland Europe, presumably for its expertise in the healing arts. Whatever might be said about it, the stones were aligned to mark the changing of the seasons, and this recent research highlights mid-winter as the most important point of the year. For all their longevity, these rituals reached a peak around 2100BC and remained a centre of religious life in western europe for two hundred years, after which it seems the bubble had burst. The site went into a long decline afterward. So - is Stonehenge a site to venerate the dead, or heal the living? Strictly speaking it might have served both purposes at seperate times. Perhaps more interestingly, was this cult of healers so powerful that people were bringing the remains of their departed friends and families to be ressurected? That's just idle conjecture, but a fascinating possibility and an illustration of the power that religion has over peoples minds.

Augustus had financial limits. He'd already disbanded more than half the available legionary strength after the end of the civil wars and resettled the ex-soldiers in colonies for that very reason. The economic success of his reign was down to decisions of that nature, and since the strategic requirements of his day did not suggest the need for further legions, there wasn't any point lumbering himself with the cost and potential danger of rebellious legions. Remember that Tacitus wasn't suprised by the mutinies in Pannonia and Germania that occured when Augustus died. Smaller scale labour-relations problems with the troops were apparently a feature of military life in that period. The problems in Germania were not that he faced an enemy army hell bent on Roman destruction (which was his initial fear), but the failure of his chosen man, varus, to successfully colonise the region, keep the peace, and tax the backsides off them. It was after all to the dead Varus that Augustus made his demand to learn the location of the eagles, which eventually Germanicus would recover. It reflected on him as a ruler whether his frontier provinces were peaceful and such rebellions were not good for business when you're walking a political tightrope. I imagine the chap was seriously worried about what was going to happen. Also, the intense and emotional nature of Roman life sometimes gives rise to stories of people showing grief. These days in the modern west we're taught such things are not really acceptable, but back then, it was expected that a man displayed emotion. Notice that when Julius Caesar bursts into tears of frustration in Spain when seeing a statue of Alexander he Great, no-one appears to mock him. Far from it, his associates are immediately concerned as to why their general was behaving in that way. The other aspect is superstition. Augustus was as intensely superstitious as other Romans. The problem with legion persistance in this period is that it was underpinned by the will of the gods, and the spirits imbued in legionary standards. Roman 'eagles' weren't just standards as we know them, but symbols with religious significance. For them to be captured by the enemy really was a disaster in his eyes, and to replace a legion under standards so cursed or defiled? That was pushing your luck wasn't it? As for Augustus's behaviour, bear in mind that Suetonius is repeating gossip. There's no guarantee Augustus did those things, or maybe did that more than once, but I also think you underestimate the strain he was under as ruler of the unified Roman world. He was treading a dangerous path. His uncle, Julius Caesar, had already been assassinated after becoming the sole ruler, and Augustus wouldn't have wanted to make that mistake. That was why he called himself 'First Citizen' instead of a more grandiose title. Further, his early reign wasn't as easy as some believe. I read mentions of him being shouted down in the senate and taunted as he stomped out. Any ruler in a state so ruthlessly competitive must have been living by looking over his shoulder. Spending money to keep the public happy with games and civic development ("I found Rome in brick, and left it in marble") was part of his survival policy. If the Romans were entertained and visibly impressed with his largesse, there was less chance of a plot developing against him. Besides, he wanted to remembered as a great ruler and such people always build memorials to themselves in one way or another.

All I did was go for a walk. In the two or three hours it took me to wander around the Mouldon Hill area, I very nearly achieved a dose of sunburn. My reflection in the mirror is an almost embarrassing shade of red. I'm actually glad todays weather is grey and slightly damp. It's spitting with rain right now. What a difference a day makes. On the way there I followed the railway path. As a child I used to walk along the tracks. Back then the line was no longer used for regular services and instead had become something of a redundant siding. These days i's a cycle path which passes an old landfill site near Moredon. It's been a long time since I've seen any activity there, but yesterday yellow eartmovers were trundling back and forth creating a fresh dirt hill on top of the weed infested old one. Somethings going on... Something was. The grassy meadows between Sparcells and Moredon have become a building site for new housing. Perhaps that was inevitable. Nonetheless I can't help feeling saddened that this little pocket of rural bliss is being dug up. I suspect that at some point the residents who will live there might regret it. The area is a flood plain and at least once I've seen the rivers that wind through there burst their banks. On the plus side there's a new community forest the other side of Mouldon Hill. Breddan Wood is one of two hundred such projects in England and Wales. It might not have the look and feel of mature woodland but it already has that secluded atmosphere that I enjoy. So did the Sparcells meadows at one time. Bird Life Walking along the river bank I disturbed a large bird. Most british birds are modest little creatures but this thing was much larger. I couldn't see what species it was, but it was largely grey with black wing tips. A crane maybe? At any rate it lazily flew away to find another secluded spot where human beings weren't going to disturb it further. I was making something of a nuisance of myself with birds it seems. A group of small birds were gathered together on a woodland path and weren't happy to see me blunder into sight. Like all humans I took no notice of their outraged caws and cries. With no option left to them, they all scattered. A solitary small egg lay on the ground with a ragged hole broken into the side, the contents gone. Feeding Time For Caldrail It's no good, I need a burger. I have just enough loose change to afford one. As soon as I entered the kebab shop across the road the turk smiled and said "Quarter pounder, onions, chilli sauce, and no cheese. Am I right?" Erm.. Yes. All the local food outlets seem to be doing that of late. I must be getting a bit predictable in my old age. As I waited for my burger to reach the point of convincing me it was edible, I noticed a young woman passing on the street. She noticed me too. Not the 'eyes across a crowded fast food outlet' sort of feeling, but instead an uncomfortable recognition between strangers. She gave a snort of disdain and carried on by. Thanks for the compliment dear. As my attention turned once again to my impending meal, the turkish guy behind the counter was looking at me quizzically. Don't look at me mate, I've no idea who she was. He merely smiled knowingly. Shouldn't you be watching that burger? I have paid for that you know.

Apart from one major failing in Roman eyes - he was unpopular with the public. Also, given that he spent something like two-thirds of his reign at his holiday villa in Capri, one might be forgiven for thinking that he loathed the role and had 'better' ways to spend his time. He certainly had no love for the Roman public. Of course this was also his duty and privilege.

A clear blue sky. Utterly devoid of any cloud whatsoever. that's a rareity in Darkest Wiltshire, but I notice the natives are taking full advantage of the summer sunshine. Draped over a stone wall is one youngster, probably sleeping off last nights attempt to pull a girl, in a state of comatosed oblivion. A few people stand back a little, not sure whether he's dead or requires an ambulance. My guess is he'll need some cream for sunburn later on. Funny thing is I woke this morning at some early hour with light intruding on my normally darkened bedroom. Shall I get up? Erm.. No. So I pulled the duvet back over me and continued this procedure at regular intervals until mid-morning. Sleeping in? That's not like me. But as they say, only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the midday sun. In my case that's only because they can't be bothered to get out of bed this morning. Today I think I shall take a wander somewhere. It's too good a day to be stuck indoors, even with an afternoon of Star Trek episodes playing on cable television. Notice Of Works It seems the redevelopment of the old college site is to go ahead. I received the official notice card in the post, which not only says the site is to be demolished, but also mentions the erection of a shopping mall and cinema. We used to have cinemas in the town centre. One across the road from where I'm typing this now, later a bingo hall and currently disused, though I notice someone has taken posession of the property. The other is just around the corner, now split between a pub downstairs and some strange christian cult upstairs. I'd better not say too much - one of the library staff is a worshipper there. She even tried to recruit me a little way back. Ahem. There was even a cinema in Rodbourne, an area of Swindon next to the railway that I used to live in once. A modest building, now a commercial premises. In recent decades all we had were those multiplex places situated in big car parks situated where no-one wants to go. In a year or two I'll be able to pop next door to take in a feature film or two, instead of making an arduous journey to some frontier of the outside world on the outskirts of Swindon. That's almost worth putting up with the noise, aggrevation, and derisive comments from the builders. Plus they intend cleaning up the alleyway behind the yard. Have they met our local fly-tippers? Good luck. Builders Cleavage I notice there's a fashion for wearing trousers so that they cling to your hips instead of being securely fastenend around the waist. When I was working at that department store I trained up a youth who wore his otherwise smart trousers in that way, and it looked daft. I think the idea is to look cool. Streetwise. To me it looks like you don't know your own waist size, but there you go. I mention this because a tall gangly youth has just climbed the library stairs in a typical swaying gait. Somewhat less typical is his trousers. So cool and streetwise is this young man that his trousers are on the point of falling off him. Worse still, his builders cleavage was clearly visible and betrayed his lack of underwear. Dear Minister of Parliament... Please be aware that youths of our country are not being taught to wear clothes properly, and there are signs of increasing inability to don trousers in public. Please bring back proper school education and give miscreants six of the best. That'll teach them to cover up. Disaster Of The Week My bathroom light isn't working. Neither the kitchen or the toilet cast any appreciable radiance into the little cubbyhole where my bath resides, so not only do I look like a caveman these days, but experience life in a cave as well. If it was a simple matter matter of changing a light bulb, I could handle that. What I can't handle is this futuristic and inert assembly screwed to the ceiling. Sooner or later I'll have to succumb to the inevitable and contact the letting agent. Then again, in two weeks time, when they've forgotten I contacted them in the first place. Eventually I'll get a visit from a handyman who'll fix the thing in seconds, literally because he gets paid for the number of jobs he does in a day. Also, I suspect, he has an innate fear of cavemen. I don't know what he's worried about. My trousers are securely fastened in place.

Industrial estates are odd places. You see them everywhere in british towns and cities, a road along which factories and warehouses are lined up in bold advertisement and yet give off a feeling of almost monastic solitude. You don't see any activity. There's no sense of urgency or productivity. I'm sure that's not actually the case or all these companies would go out of business. It's just that the square and architecturally cold brick frontages do not reveal their inner workings to the casual passer by. Well, here's the factory unit where I'm supposed to learn how to drive a forklift. As with almost all of them, the offices face the street, the production areas kept out of sight to the rear. The lady at the reception desk sighed when I produced the letter confiorming my course placement and thumbed in the direction of the side entrance. Tradesmen at the rear? It seems so. No matter, her opinions aren't important. So I wandered around the side of the factory, through an open iron gate, and looked along the weed infested pathway. Just before the verdant english jungle completely overtook the discarded piles of wood, corrugated iron, and worn tires, there was a door propped open. Here we go then. The light and airy factory floor was almost empty. At the other end I observed the forklifts wheezing and whirring. Along the right hand side was a garden. Seriously. Flower beds, gravel, wooden sheds, birdtables - this was truly bizarre. The two ladies dealing with the paperwork didn't acknowledge my presence for a while and I was there for two hours waiting to sign on to the course, which I now know will start in a couple of months time. Oh, but I did do something useful while I was there. A literacy test. Seventy two questions designed to test my spelling and grammar. Obviously an essential requirement for driving forklifts. I'm pleased to announce I scored 100%, and thus qualify as an englishman. More Bizarre Stuff What is it with the Germans these days? They always seem to come up with strange stunts. There was Matthias Rust who landed a Cessna in Red Square, Moscow, for no obvious reason. Now I read that a some idiot in Bavaria threw a puppy at some Hells Angels and escaped on a stolen bulldozer. Like you do.

That's not what I meant. Statistics gathered from archaeological sources vary a little but the best figures I have suggest that a gladiator had around a one third chance of dying in his first match. Only if he survived did his increasing skill and experience lower that risk to around 1 in 9 or 1 in 10. The average life expectancy appears to have been something like four years. It took a capable individual to survive for any length of time. Some did of course. In that recent Channel 4 documentary discussing the remains found at York, one fighter, a retiarius, was showing signs of intensive training at a very early age - earlier than most gladiators - and he died of his injuries around the age of forty, which makes him something of a survival expert in the arena. You say the training was aimed at producing a good fighter. I agree completely. However, not everyone makes a good fighter and only a small section of society have the necessary physical and mental capabilities to become a top class fighter. Talent is everything. Not everyone has that. For a man who demonstrates this talent I would have expected he received the full attention of his Lanista. For most, they rreceived enough training to put on a good show. Whether they knew how slim their chances were or not I can't say, but I'm sure their trainer wasn't under any illusions, and was he really going to give everyone in his ownership the same care and attention as a top class fighter? You say the money was important - again I agree - but I see it as a matter of investment. What's the point of training to the nth degree a man who couldn't fight off his mother-in-law? In any case, they didn't breed cannon-fodder. It was more of a case of okay, lets try this new recruit... Oh dear... He isn't very good is he? No matter. Cassius the Castrator is appearing in the games announced by our local magistrate next week. We'll use him for that. But in order to satisfy the Roman audience that this was a 'fair' fight, he needs to look like he can fight. That can be done without a huge investment. newbies weren't given chances to build a career as a gladiator. They had to prove they were worthy. That meant winning. Don't forget, not all lanistas operated from fixed sites. Many could not afford the large ludii. If I remember right, there are mentions of itinerant troupes of gladiators with no fixed abode, just a group of fighters wandering from town to town putting on shows for a living. You might argue it was in their interest not to suffer a casualty - I can see that point - yet this was a contact sport. A very dangerous contact sport. It was accepted that an entrant to the arena ran the risk of death or disability.

The program claimed that these skeletons were the first complete remains identified as gladiators. This is not true. A comprehensive set of remains has been uncovered in Ephesus, Turkey. What was underlined by Channel 4's documentary was the physical distress of a gladiators lifestyle, especially that of those final moments. It worth stressing that. There's a part of the human psyche that identifies with violence. We sometimes see gladiatorial combat as something approaching a noble profession, and certainly, the mystique it generates reflects the very same attitudes the Romans themselves attached to it, though in fairness to them they were a society that tolerated a higher level of violence than we do. Nonetheless whilst the arena provided an exciting competition between fighters much the same as we view modern boxing, there was also the 'horror' element of seeing a man cut down, and I notice the modern popularity of blood and gore in films designed to frighten their audience. We enjoy a sort of virtual killing field enveloped in a dark mythology of its own. The Romans played it out for real to demonstrate martial virtue, cultural dominance, and their assumed mastery over nature.

I'm not confused in the slightest. Anyone entering the arena as a gladiator was by definition a performer, whether he was there by way of sale, judgement, or sef volition. As such, they were infama. Young men of higher birth volunteered as much as anyone else, and Augustus was forced to place restrictions on the numbers of the patrician class who were volunteering. Noxii weren't allowed the privlege of fighting as gladiators. They were there to be slaughtered by way of an 'entertaining' execution. Typically two were in the arena and one had a weapon with which to kill the other. The winner would then be forced to hand the blade to the next noxius to enter the arena. And so forth. That said, there were still gladiators who were effectively 'cannon fodder', though they still had some chance at least seeiong as they were armed. Experienced gladiators were valuable commodities. If he should die, his owner must receive monetary compensation for his loss, and thus these men were often paired off with newbie fighters who weren't such a risk. These newbies weren't expected to survive, though some did. Further, many men were taken on to fill the ranks of a spectacular. These were not professional fighters either, and may have been recruited from all sources available, criminal or otherwise. The games organisers simply needed X amount of men and found them from where-ever they could. Incidentially, Channel 4 shhowed a program last night about the forensic findings of these burials. It seems most died in their early twenties. Unusually, a fair number were decapitated, which would appear to be a local behavioural anomaly caused by their east european tribal customs (that was the apparent geographic origin of ther remains). One chap, who is believed to have been a retiarius, died around the age of forty. He had a longer right arm - a sign of intense physical training from puberty. Make no mistake, this documentary made it brutally clear the violence and pain these men suffered. The forensic expert was almost gleeful in pointing out details of long term growth patterns and damage indications on the bones. One fascinating point which was played by actors but not stressed in the commentary, was the evidence that when one fighter fell, his opponent brought down the edge of his shield to break the fallen mans sword arm, thus preventing him from fighting on. There's no doubt that gladiators were serious fighters. As with the greeks, winning was everything.

In the past I've always encountered a certain level of apathy from my various employers. Sometimes it's because they don't believe my initiatives will work, or perhaps prefer to give the credit to someone else. Sometimes it's because I've been pigeon-holed, pure and simple. Finally, after quarter of a century, I've pushed through one of the major obstacles to my progress in the workplace. They're going to train me to drive forklifts. I have my claims advisor to thank for that. He certainly exceeded most of my expectations but I was correct. So far he too has refused to recognise my title. At least he was a good deal more polite about that than Bovine Betty. She promised to change it on their system as well. We'll see if he means what he says. Nonetheless I now have some work training to attend. The factory where I'm going to receive this education is on an industrial estate less than half an hours walk from where I live. It also happens to be a nice day. One of those days where great dramatic clumps of white and grey cumulus attempt to drown out the blue sky, reminiscent of those old railway jigsaws I used to assemble when I was a child (we didn't have Playstations in those days). It's a nice day. I have a good feeling about this. Civic Improvement The route to the factory is along the main shopping concourse. The contractors who were ripping up the pavement for whatever reason are still at it. Swathes of the pedestrianised street are fenced off from muddy trenches. The department store whose wall nearly collapsed on top of passers-by is still under construction, merely a framework of light grey girders, upon which a line of builders sit watching the world go by. But they have finished the water feature. It's a pair of concrete slabs with a corrugated wavy surface down which water is allowed to run. As far as I can see, all it does is cause a damp patch on the pavement. Should fit right into the local landscape then. Birthday Prezzie Of The Week There are people in this town who believe I have always lived a life of relative wealth and privilege. They believe this despite the fact that some of them earned more than I did by way of overtime and promotions. Truth is I've always worked at just the same jobs as them. In any case, as an unemployed person I'm not that wealthy, title or not. I had to laugh at the furore about a certain celebrity, whose sixteen year old son has just received a

Todays the day when I face a new claims advisor. His name is on the confirmation letter but we've not had dealings before, so I haven't a clue what sort of person he is. Could he be worse than Bovine Betty? Well, actually, yes, he could be. We shall see. The problem with handovers like this this is that my jobsearch agreement gets changed. The 'agreement' is an informal contract. It sets out what I have to do as a minimum each week to earn my benefits. I always try to exceed those requirements by a comfortable margin and even then occaisionally they get very dismissive of my efforts. That's because they don't believe I make any. That's the problem with being a jobseeker - you get painted as a professional lazy-ass scrounger and you have to prove and confirm you're actually doing what you claim to be. So I've just spent the morning putting all my paperwork together. A loose leaf folder, bursting with rejection letters and impossible to close properly any more. Those hideous little jobsearch record booklets in which I have to write in all the various minutae of my efforts to find employment. Printouts of emails and CV's. I now have a rucksack full of paper. He'd better be impressed or I'm definitely going to throw a tantrum. Now the question is, apart from whether he'll treat me as a bona fide jobseeker or dole cheat, is whether he'll use my title as his employers diversity statement says he should. My guess is that he won't. His immediate reaction will be that I'm trying some scam, or worse, simply taking the pee. If I were a professor, doctor, prist, or a politician I might well hear him use that title without a hitch, but as a jobseeker? This is part of the problem. Granted many unemployed people have no intention of a days work - I've seen plenty of them over the last year - but there's an attitude that being out of work makes you a lesser person. For all the claims that department employees should show respect to their customers, the majority pay lip service to that requirement. They really do see you as an unwanted impediment to society. In a way I am, because I currently do no useful work for my pittance, but what an illustration of how society stratifies itself according to wealth, or more importantly, the visual impression of it. Somehow I doubt my olive green military surplus trousers are going to impress him. Nor will all these bundles of letters and documents. Nor will proof of my entitlement to use the title 'Lord'. What would impress him? Get a job, Caldrail. I am trying you know. Peace And Calm It's all quiet in Swindon right now. Our failure to demolish America in the World Cup in South Africa has not resulted in hordes of outraged fans going on the rampage in our town centre. Swindon isn't the only town to place bans on public display of large screen television showing our progress through this soccer competition, and won't be the last, but at least I'm spared chorus lines of drunken football fans outside my home. Even my neighbours have turned down the volume somewhat lately, without any official complaining from me. Maybe it's the weather. There's a sort of heaviness to the air. Warm but no sunny. Cloudy but not wet. Always threatening to rain but waiting for that moment you venture out without suitable clothing. Then again, maybe our late night revellers have been attacked and eaten by urban foxes? I did hope so. In the event one reason is that a pub up the hill amongst the grotty terraced housing has reopened after a year or two of abandonment. I saw the rebuilding work on the premises and I did actually think it was being rebuilt as accomodation. Everything else is right now. In fact, so quiet has it gotten that twice I've heard police cars making a quick WOOOO! with their siren as they drive past. What's that in aid of? Warning drunks to stay on the pavement? Bye For Now Right, time to pack my sack and wander down to the Job Centre and be utterly crushed as a human being once more. Another day, another signature.

Hitler was not universally admired at the time. Whilst some pointed at his re-invigorated country, bear in mind he was also regarded as a dangerous looney by the more intuitive observers in the 1930's. Further, Hitler did not declare war. He was annexing european territory on some very shabby exuses, sent troops to Spain against the League of Nations rulings against foreign involvement, and Britain declared war on him in 1939 to honour their promise to guarantee Polands frontiers. The only declaration of war I know Hitler actually made was in 1942, when he formalised hostilities against the United States. (Okay, I see he declared war on the Allies in 1941, and also Russia). As for Caesar, lets not forget that he had no intention of opening up the senate for others. All he wanted was political - and financial - success for himself. Remember that he burst into tears on seeing a statue of Alexander the Great. "Why are you crying, Caesar?" Asked his aides. "Because at my age he had conquered the world, and I have done nothing" Replied Caesar.

Swords are bound to vary somewhat. Differing quality and length are the most obvious, depending on who ordered the sword and who made it. It's an interesting point that highlights Roman standardiation. In general, we assume that equipment was pretty much identical in all cases and that is, I suspect, a result of our our modern mass-production mindset. Individual items were hand crafted in those days and so standardisation was harder to achieve - though I notice that despite the institution of fabricae (equipment factories) in the late empire they still didn't produce standard items. In the light of nascent standardisation in Roman culture (building regulations post-Nero, or bronze and lead plumbing fitments in set sizes) it seems odd that swords were so variable. Then again, perhaps we assume a Roman need for that. If one man is taller than another, surely a longer sword is appropriate? In any case, since swords were often made to a customers order, the length would be his choice as much as the makers, and not something the officers could do much about.

What might shock you is the weight and balance. Romans used heavier wooden dummy weapons to practice and build their strength. A gladius is in fact easier to use as a thrusting weapon than swinging it about, as indeed it was employed in history. Nonetheless, the spatha was longer, and more tiring on the forearm and wrist, but bear in mind that originally it was supposed to be used from horseback thus angled downward much of the time. The reason it was taken up as an infantry sword in later years was due to length. Despite the extra weight of the blade, the average legionary o the late empire had nothing like the training of his predecessors and the nerve to stay fighting almost eyeball to eyeball with very short swords was no longer developed in Roman soldiers.

Spartacus is often portrayed variously as a great general, a heroic freedom fighter, or a Roman-era progenitor of the class struggle'. None of these is really true of course. The reality as far as we can discern from our sources is that he was an army deserter and a bandit. He wasn't a great general because he had no long term strategy and either succumbed to temptation to resume banditry or failed utterly to convince his followers not to do so, and spent the latter part of his rebellion in flight having lost the intiative to the Roman adversaries. He wasn't a freedom fighter because he didn't care about freedom in the way we do these days, though I daresay he was happy enough to receive the numbers of disaffected slaves and citizens that flocked to his banner. He wasn't a class warrior because he had no intention of changing the status quo, and even though (unlike the Kirk Douglas film) he had captured Roman patrons fighting for their entertainment, he made no attempt to establish a different socio-political regime (or evn distribute little red scrolls ) However, the idea of Spartacus as a hero is a very persistent one. Even Theodor Mommsen suggested he was a 'scion of his country' because in his victorian era mindset such an apparently able leader must have had 'princely' blood in his veins. The theme of a man throwing off misfortune and fightin for freedom and justice is a common one. The tales of Robin Hood are effectively the same, and just as distorting of the truth behind them. When Ronald Reagan referred to Spartacus as his hero, he was of course talking aboutthe heroic image, not the reality of the man nor for that matter any particular media depiction, since Kirk Douglas was merely reinforcing popular images of Spartacus as a fairly standard mythic hero.

What is it with economy cars? Why do the people responsible for these automotive blasphemies believe that we, the buying public, want some god-awful buggy that resembles a childs toy? I write this because Riversimple are unveiling a hydrogen powered car in Britain. Like the all-electirc Gee-Whiz, it's an exremely compact two seater rather like a distorted Smart Car. Back in America, or California at least, they have hydrogen powered cars on sale already. Theirs are similar to everyday petrol cars and although not quite a vehicle to raise the pulse rate, it does at least avoid embarrasing its owner. But no. Britain must have tiny town cars designed for the responsible urban commuter that are disastrously ugly and impracticle. You know, I used to drive a five door Nissan Cherry. No, don't laugh, I bought it secondhand at a considerable discount. For all its faults, the little car was reliable, practical, and actually a sharper car to drive than the dull smoothed out contemporary vehicles we're expected to believe are fun cars to drive. And, I should point out, faster than the modern alternative. I notice that the man behind Riversimples new vehicle is a former racing driver. Times have certainly changed. I've always thought it's a bit ironic that planners have moaned that increasing car ownership was reducing the average speed of travel to walking pace, because we now have cars designed to do exactly that anyway. The Tragedy Of Competition I was watching a documentary recently about the disastrous accident during the 1955 Le Man 24 hour race. For those who can bear to see it, here's a link to footage of the event.... http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=39422 The race had turned into grudge match between Jaguar and Mercedes teams. Mike hawthorn, a Jaguar driver, is deliberately baiting the superior Mercedes cars and both teams are racing right on ragged edge. Approaching the slight curve before the audience enclosures, Hawthorn decides to 'pit' his car. In these days the circuit had no seperate pit lane. Cars were serviced by the side of the track, and there were no run-off's. Lance Macklin, who was just overtaken by Hawthorn, cuts the inside of the corner to avoid a collison, bringing up dirt. His car is unsettled at high speed, and to avoid crashing into the side of the track or indeed into Hawthorns Jaguar which was braking ahead of him, swerves left back across the tarmac. Levegh, a fifty year old driver of a Mercedes, is traveling much faster and coming past the Austin Healey on the outside. As Macklin swerves across, Levegh clips the back of his car. The Mercedes flips into the air, crashes against the side of the road, explodes, and sends wreckage hurtling into the crowd, including the engine block. Between 80 to 120 were killed, another 100 spectators injured. The program fixed the blame on Macklin for swerving, and pointed out that Levegh was older than the average driver and must have had slower reflexes. I've thought about this. When Macklin avoids a collision with Mike hawthorns Jaguar, his attention is fixed on keeping his car under control and avoiding a crash. At a hundred miles an hour or more, in a 1950's car without aerodynamic aids, or even seatbelts, I can imagine he was fully occupied. Why then, would he take the time to glance at his mirror? He wouldn't have had the time. This wasn't a sunday drive to the local supermarket. Macklin was trying to keep a car on the ragged edge from becoming an accident. Then again, Levegh was travelling much faster on the outside of the curve. At a hundred and fifty miles an hour, any avoiding action would have sent him wider, and thus an accident would have occurred anyway. Without doubt, his reaction time was slower than the situation demanded. I think though that given how quickly the situation developed, a tragedy was bound to happen. The speed they were all going at precluded any heroic avoidance. Human beings have an innate desire to attach blame. We want someone to be responsible, to accept the punishment for their transgressions. The documentary was entirely devoted to who was to blame for the tragedy. Was it Hawthorn, braking hard in front of a car he'd just overtaken? Was it Macklin, trying to avoid a collision with Hawthorn and retain control of speeding Austin Healey? Or was it Levegh himself, driving beyond his ability in what was for its time an extremely fast car? By now I suspect most you have already decided. In our modern view, speed was responsible. Perhaps, in the final analysis, the uncomfortable truth was that the accident was due to single minded determination to win by all concerned. Success involves risk, either by pushing the laws of physics in a race, or by commercial ventures such as the Riversimple hydrogen car. That's the price you pay for competition, or indeed conflict. After all, isn't sport ritualised confrontation?