caldrail

I take issue on this point. Bestiarii were 'beast fighters' and as such considered the lowest of the low of the gladiatorial kind (ignoring the Noxii but as intended victims they were never trained). Venatorii were 'beast hunters', athletes who didn't fight animals per se but attacked from a distance (though inevitably there must have been times when it all went horribly wrong for them). It is interesting though that you dismiss animal fighters as non-gladiators. Strictly speaking that's the case and I suspect the Romans had views along those lines, since an animal hunt (of whatever variety) was an added spectacle and not part of the formal one-on-one professional bouts. Incidentially (and this is a little crass), do you re-enact the comedy bouts with dwarf males? That was common entertainment before and during the period of female gladiatorial matches.

The problem is one of perception. The image of Spartacus as a general is very enticing but one that gives him air and graces he never had. Spartacus after all had no overall strategy other than to plunder and stay one step ahead of the Romans, nor was he attempting to win 'victory' or 'conquest' over the Roman state. Nor for that matter did he have any formal army whatsoever, rather a band of escaped gladiators (although most of these were no more than ill-trained cannon-fodder anyway - there was a spectacle planned in Capua and Spartacus armed his followers with weapons intended for the performance, found on a wagon approaching outside ot town) and an increasingly large retinue of disaffected individuals. Spartacus may have had military credentials though. One story describes him as a deserter from the auxillaries, which is in keeping with the nature of the man. His main claim to fame is that he stayed at large for so long and embarrased Roman generals by outwitting them. That in itself doesn't make him a general, and that's why I prefer to describe him as a guerilla leader. His campaign was based on banditry, not miltary conquest of territory or other strategic objectives. In fact, there's a strong possibility that he thought he could get away weith his bandit lifestyle. Although he'd been caught and sentenced once already, his ability to outwit the legions sent against him persuaded him (or if not, most of his followers) to turn south and begin plundering instead of making for the Alps and freedom 'over the border'. He was therefore conducting his campaign for personal gain - though I must also point out that he was described as being scrupulously fair in dividing the spoils. Notice also that in the Kirk Douglas film there's a scene where Spartacus stops a fight hastily arranged between senators, with Spartacus demanding to know whether they had become animals (humanity is a theme visited by the film regularly), when in fact the historical Spartacus was only too ken to see his social betters fight each other as they had intended him to.

Over the years I've met people on internet forums. We all say that. The truth is we haven't met them at all. They're just little icons and text messages from people far far away. How well can you know someone on a website? That's difficult to say. If there's one thing the internet allows, and indeed one of it's greatest dangers, is the anonymity of it. You can invent a persona and people do exactly that. Time and again I hear stories of 'women' being unmasked as male teenagers (Good grief, the world is full of wannabe transvestites!) or the cute friendly boy your daugter chatted to via the web turns out to be a middle aged paedophile who wants an adventure away from home. You can never be fully certain who you're communicating with. This has been brought into focus again by the Roman Catholic Church, something I find coldly amusing considering the numbers of dodgy individuals that organised religion hides in its ranks, but there you go. Archbishop Vincent Nichols of Westminster has warned that networking sites such as Facebook and Myspace are encouraging teenagers to create 'transient' friendships. It could leave them traumatised or suicidal he says. I think that's a little off the mark. You see, most relationships are transient. How many people do you meet find long lasting relationships or friendships with you? Precious few. That's simply how life is. The problem then isn't the site, but the learning experience of a teenager who puts too much trust in someone they've never met. Teenagers usually want friendships and to be honest they make the same mistakes dealing with people face to face. Or does the ranks of unmarried teenage mothers mean nothing? The fault isn't the internet, but the lack of guidance for young people in learning about life and how dangerous or disappointing it can be. So, Mr Nichols, why not try doing something positive instead of finding a scapegoat? You are in the business of guidance, are you not? Or is the internet too difficult to burn? Job Offer of the Week A few weeks ago I looked up a business address on the internet and sent a CV on the off chance thy might have a suitable vacancy, or perhaps keep my details on file for future consideration. Standard job searching practice really. Usually you don't hear any more, but this company very kindly responded. They apologised that they didn't have anything to offer me in their sales office in Swindon, Wiltshire, southern England, but their manufacturing facility is in Aberdeen Scotland and would I like my details forwarded? Not really. Bit far to walk every day.

...Caligula, the grandson of Drusus, the step-son of Augustus, and grand-nephew of Tiberius himself, a most wicked and cruel prince, who effaced even the memory of Tiberius's enormities. He undertook a war against the Germans; but, after entering Suevia, made no effort to do anything. He committed incest with his sisters, and acknowledged a daughter that he had by one of them. While tyrannizing over all with the utmost avarice, licentiousness, and cruelty, he was assassinated in the palace... Historiae Romanae Breviarium (Eutropius) Thus Gaius, after doing in three years, nine months, and twenty-eight days all that has been related, learned by actual experience that he was not a god. Roman History Book 59 (Cassius Dio)

Human beings are creatures of habit. We soon find a comfortable routine in any enviroment, finding a way of life that suits us just fine. Why then do we worry so much about lifestyles? Everyone likes to suggest how we ought to live. Religion has been doing that for thousands of years of course. It's no coincidence that churches and temples demand attendance and regular prayer. The government very kindly makes lots of rules to persuade us to adopt their own sanitised version of behaviour. Not only that, they give us lots of forms to fill in, so they can check. Some might be quite happy to have their lives ordered and regulated by someone else, to avoid the stress of choice and concious thought. On the other hand there's always a few of us who are unwilling to be constrained by conformity. Somewhere in the middle are the majority who want to do the right thing but aren't entirely happy about the restrictions that authority places upon us. Why else are foreign holidays so popular? The media provides us with a sort of escape valve. People can sit in front of television and watch other peoples lives, real or imagined, and the enduring popularity of soap operas is that endemic quality of human society, poking your nose into someone elses business. Clearly then lifestyles are an outward sign of wealth and status, a marker by which judge ourselves and others. Choosing a lifestylwe is a little difficult though if it doesn't come naturally to you. Choose the wrong one, and you can be seen as arrogant, haughty, a poser, or simply a buffoon. Obviously we need help to choose, and luckily for western society the racks of lifestyle magazines offer endless coaching on what is or isn't stylish. I noticed one such magazine yesterday. A glossy colour photo on the cover of a happy smiling woman, pleased with life, content with all that she has, and a very subliminal advert for the advice contained within its pages. There was a list of articles on the frnt cover. I wonder... How hard can it be to do the same thing? How to avoid Swine Flu As I understand it, swine flu is passed from person to person. So the best advice is to stop meeting people. Stay at home. Now that's a little boring I know so perhaps you'd consider taking up a hobby? How to trace your family tree Perfect. Spend your time investigating your family tree and discover which of your ancestors died of swine flu. Now whilst this might be fun at first, you will no doubt quickly discover your social life is suffering. Fear not. We have the advice to help you... How to find new friends Now this is a subject of perennial interest to human beings because so many of us are rubbish at finding new friends. One lady of my acquaintence suggested that you should 'love yourself before others love you'. Aha. Well I'm not entirely sure that's going to work in polite society, so perhaps a holiday might do the trick? How to cut costs on foreign holidays Don't go. That's a few hundred pounds saved straight away. Now you can get drunk for four weeks instead of two. How about that for advice? Lifestyle of the Week Also on the cover was Carol Vordeman, proclaiming 'I've found my passion again'. Good for you dear. But unless you're planning to release keep fit videos with pornographic content, I really don't see why I should be bothered. Perhaps my own existence is rewarding enough in it's modest way to keep me happy. It seems though that these magazines exist to fulfill a basic fantasy to many miserable and disappointed people. Personally, I think these people should stop buying magazines and starting finding passions of their own. They'll be much happier than wishing they could emulate other peoples. And they'll have more money to spend. Go on. Cheer yourself up. Get right down to the mall and shop 'til you drop. If you're still sat here reading this instead of rushing out the door with plastic bags and chequebook at the ready, congratulations, you passed the final exam.

It's known at least one woman was trained as a venator, an animal hunter. As for bestiarii (animal fighters) it's unlikely the Romans would be so crass and unchivalrous to have a woman brawl with a wild animal without some element of moral justice involved. There is also a stone relief that shows two female gladiators (one named Amazonia) dressed in conventional gladiatorial gear which indicates they fought in familiar pairings as was the convention. What didn't happen was for men and women to fight each other - that was considered unfair. I should add as an afterthought that I've come across no reference whatsoever to women riding horses in the arena.

Occaisionally I get stray phone messages. I suppose we all do from tiime to time, and there was a time you always got double glazing companies trying to sell you more replacement windows. Sometimes you get strange characters phoning for strange reasons. I remember one chap called me and I made the mistake of assuming it one of my mates (he used the same name). He then proceeded to ask where his hammer was. Hammer? What hammer? He then got irate because I'd 'lost' his hammer. Sorry mate, wrong number. *click* On the other hand, stray calls can be of a personal nature, like the young lady who valiantly tried to get a date by telling me I'd met her at a party. Which party? I'd remember. No, I didn't think she could tell me when and where it was, something I find a little strange considering she was so keen to go out with me. Call me suspicious, but instinct tells me to be wary of this sort of thing. The reason I discuss this subject is that I've received a phone message from a 'workman' who identified himself by his first name (as if that meant anything to me) claiming he needed access to my home to check for water leaks. His Liverpool accent didn't nothing to assuage my doubts. "Call me on this number" the message ended. Except it comes up as a '(No Number)' entry. That's happened before. Back when my outrageously lowered and body kitted Eunos Cabriolet still worked, I'd parked it in a well to do area at the suggestion of the Police and got a phone call from a citizen who was breathlessly keen to get me to drive it somewhere else. "I've scratched the paint on my car trying to get around it into my drive" She claimed. As it happened, I did move the car half an hour later, but she was mysteriously absent when I did. Something didn't quite sound right that day, and today, I got the same feeling. But I'll check with the letting agent anyway and find out whether they know who this 'workman' is. Just in case my neighbours are drowning. Pic of the Day Yes, I was out and about yesterday. Heavy showers and hot sunshine. A very average hiking experience then, and no strange phone calls to disturb the rural isolation. A pair of hawks circled the woods to the right of the picture. Large ones, making shrill cries. Aaah... Young love.... Phone Call of the Week There's a telephone facility for jobseekers that I sometimes use. You sort of get to know the various characters employed by the call centre, and only one of them sounds like they live in Delhi. Unfortunately one of them is not entirely interested in his job. He rushes through the requisite phrases in a bored 'Oh gawd not another caller' voice and when he locates a vacancy for you, he reads through the description so fast you get the impression he doesn't care whether you write any of that stuff down or not. Sorry, what was that email address again? Could you spell that please? Sorry, was that 'm' or 'n'? Sorry I called.

The republic didn't return because the senators who wanted it to didn't try hard enough. They did, if I remember right, make a lot of noise on the subject. The praetorians however had found someone to carry on the role of emperor and that suited them just fine, since if the republic was reinstated it was back to the regular legions for the lot of them with the loss of all perks. Having been caught out by events, the senators had no reliable military force to face down the praetorians.

Yesterday afternoon I braved the rain and popped down to the supermarket for my weekly needs. There's a magazine rack near the door from the central concourse and to be honest, I've long given up any interest in it. Basically the magazines on sale either tell you what's happening in the private lives of celebrities, what they're wearing this year, or how men can have a flat six-pack stomach like theirs. This time though I noticed a copy of Mojo, an indie music publication intended for people who understand the secret language of music journalism. Quite frankly I've got little time for discerning the meaning of life from magazines and I can't say music journalists have ever impressed me with enlightenment about the human condition (or even last nights gig), but then I saw the free CD attached to the cover. Africa Rising it was called. A collection of various artists and their ethnic music. For some reason this intrigued me. Quite why I don't know. Africa has never loomed large in my conciousness and ethnic music doesn't rouse me. I admit I liked the Giant Leap album, the one with Robbie Williams on it, and also No Quarter (Robert Plant & Jimmy Page) which contained ethnic versions of Led Zeppelin tracks. The genre is full of rythmn with a sort of warm chaos to it, a bit like primitive jazz. Am I developing a taste for African music? Good grief, all my dead heavy metal heroes must be turning in their grave. All I can say is that Africa Rising doesn't disappoint. Compliment of the Week The lady on the checkout till described me as a young man. Isn't it amazing what a copy of Mojo does for your public image? Who needs a flat six-pack stomach anyway?

Killing fields? Not quite on that scale. More like a summary execution of a local warrior band. That sort of thing has always occured in warfare.

I had thought that today I would venture out into the wilderness yet again, pack on back, braving life and limb in the Rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. If you intend a journey out of doors it's always wise to consult the weather reports and make an informed decision on whether the trip is worth the trouble. I know that sounds extrene - it is only the grassy downlands of North Wiltshire and that's fairly local to where I live - but all the same it's suprising how harsh conditions can get up there and I'd rather not get caught out. As it happens, my plans were dashed by a weatherman who clearly knew I what I was up to. He smiled joyfully as he warned of the huge band of rain due to cross England today. Light rain or showers I can cope with well enough, but having to trudge miles through heavy rain? Discretion is the better part of valour. Now some of you might be saying "Not exactly Sir Ranulph Fiennes is he?" No, I'm not. Neither are you in all likeliehood. There again, people like that are driven to push the boundaries of human endurance and so forth, whereas I go hiking for fun, fresh air, and what remains of my personal fitness. Thing is though, whereas the risk and significance of my wanderings are so much less than famous polar explorers, in a sense I am doing it for the same reasons. I do want to push my physical limits (a little bit anyway) and I do want to come home believing I've traversed the wilderness, such as is available in modern Britain on my doorstep. What I don't want to do though is overtly risk my health and safety to the same degree, and that's really what marks out the difference. Life is all about risk isn't it? Do you drive a pillow-protected city car on regulated roads at legal speeds or a full on grand prix car with a carbon fibre crash cell and only a plastic helmet to ward off debris on the track as you steam forward at nearly two hundred miles an hour? Do you go home tonight to faithful Muriel and the kids, or try it on with that blonde secretary in a mad hormone driven rush to obey basic instincts? Ultimately it's your own choice of course. Each of us has a personal limit to the amount of risk we accept into our lives, and often that goes hand in hand with your confidence. Truth be told, going onto the downs during a downpour isn't really that risky (I did go up there once during a blizzard - Fiennes fans please note), but ye gods what a miserable way to spend the day. In any case, I have another health reason not to disappear into the wilderness today... Heathy Eating of the Week I blame tv adverts. No, I do. They keep on showing happy smiling people enjoying life to the full and looking so healthy you grit your teeth at the sight of it. So passing the cereal shelf at the supermarket I stopped at the boxes marked "Fibrewheat Brownflakes" Shall I? Shan't I? Oh what the heck, lets do my health a favour... Sixty nine pence for a box of cereal can't be bad... In the early hours of this morning, I discovered how healthy my bowels had become. Three times I've made a desperate dash for the loo and... Oh no... not again! If you'll excuse me, I'm going to log off now....

The extra day off is welcome (though at the moment it makes little difference to me). What isn't welcome are the associations the government want to apply to it. I doubt they have our leisure at heart.

I see from the news that there's plans to create a new bank holiday. Another one? hey I don't mind at all, it's another day of work... Or it would be if I had a job. It does seem a bit strange though. For a government trying so hard to oil the wheels of transport policy, why do they want to clog up the motorways with parked cars again? Is it merely another example of the Labour Party attempting to buy favour with a disillusioned public? Vote for us and have new holidays? Given that this government taxes us more than ever before, that they've borrowed so much money the economy will be weighed down for decades, that they confidently predict a recovery next year in a worsening economy, why do they think another bank holiday is such a good idea? Then it hits you. They want this new day off to commemorate those who have died at work. I have to say this is a shocking piece of political cynicism. Given that pension schemes are collapsing and most of us will have to work into retirement age and collapse on the job, one wonders if this new holiday isn't designed to prepare us for the ranks of body bags being collected from the factory gates. Welcome to Labours brave new world. Now Thats What I Call Dire For many years now there have been music compilations released with tv adverts, collections of chart hits that were probably best left forgotten in the first place. The Now Thats What I Call Music series is currently up to album 73. Not to be outdone, my old school has begun making CD's of teachers, parents, students, past, present, and future recording music of one sort or another, calling iit Now That's What I Call Commonweal in a blatant bandwagon of marketing. Heck, I'm glad I got out of there when I did.

I've just read through an archaeological report about Stonehenge dating back to 1901. Apparently some of the stones fell over the year before due to neglect and the idea was to set them upright again and have a dig around. I was impressed by the dry analytical research they did, with little of the victorian theorising that's so mindnumbingly ridiculous. One point of interest though. They found a roman coin there, a 'sestercius of Antonia', which was a coin of the Claudian period. Coincidence? Or did Roman soldiers pop down there to take a look? Stonehenge may have declined in importance during the iron age but it was used as a temple by druidic priests, so perhaps a leftover of an eviction by Vespasians conquerors? It would be fascinating to find out.

Not an especially nice morning. Damp and dreary, another Monday, and despite the elation of getting my PC going - or more accurately, going when it can be bothered - today just doesn't have that 'Get Up And Go' feel about it. Of course my Uncle, now sadly deceased, would have said I wasn't a 'Get Up And Go' person. I think he was wrong there, but I have to confess his determination to find a job when he got made redundant was the stuff of personal heroism. So I must concede his point and call myself a 'Get Up And Think About It' person. Maybe something in the letterbox will cheer me up? You never know... The Great Bank Statement Affair A letter from the bank I see. You can tell because they have a particular franking mark on their envelopes. What will that be about? A brand new account you have to pay for? Insurance offers? Nope, it's a bank statement. Pages of it this time. Okay, lets check through it and... Hang on... Where's my benefits payments for the last fortnight?... Have they stopped my benefits without telling me? After all the stuff I did at the Programme Centre? I snarled with rage and rolled up my sleeves. I was not going to be treated like this! The Job Centre was shut. Lucky for you lot. So instead I burst upon the Council reception centre and proceeded to explain my sorry circumstance. "Oh. Well, we don't have anyone here who can deal with this." Said the bemused woman behind the desk. My face was reaching the darker shade of red by this time, so she advised me a telephone was available down the hall. I stomped down there and having found the phone, discovered the frustrating fact that Swindon Council have not yet developed the technology to make them work. "Calm down!" A young woman interrupted me, worried my skin was going green and my shirt failing to contain swelling muscles (not to mention the risk of inadvertant damage to a disfunctional telephone). I think I might have lost my temper at that moment slightly. Embarrasement of the Week Having eventually found someone to talk to who understood what benefits were and had the authority to answer my frantic queries, I realised the bank statement sheets were in the wrong order. I had indeed been paid my benefits. If anyone I savaged and tore limb from limb is reading this, then I apologise for getting a tad upset. Popular opinion to the contrary, I am a klutz.

You took the analogy further than I intended. What I was pointing at was a vivid example of willingness to slaughter civilians, not the specific example of the holocaust. I agree with the expedience element - I mentioned that as well. However, what must be underlined is the commercial element of this. The Romans themselves referred to the 'Wages of War', meaning the ability of armies to operate at a profit by looting and enslaving. That's something the modern world can't emulate with its rules of engagements and expensive hardware. In other words, not only were the Romans brutal, but they deliberately profitted from that brutality, which is why we see them them in such a disagreeable light. The best example is an event described by Wikipedia as follows... Since 193 BCE, the Lusitanians had been fighting the Romans. In 150 BCE, they were defeated by Praetor Servius Galba: springing a clever trap, he killed 9,000 Lusitanians and later sold 20,000 more as slaves in Gaul (modern France). What Servius Galba did was offer a cessation of hostilities to the Lusitanii and told them that if they surrendered their weapons at any of three camps, they could live peacefully as Roman allies with their own land and no hard feelings. Galba was of course lying, and immediately the weapons were surrendered he slaughtered the hapless barbarians and profitted mightily from selling the rest in Rome. In fact, the Senate was outraged by this example of immoral behaviour and had Galba prosecuted. The wily ex-general had his young children brought into the senate house crying their eyes out because they'd been told daddy was to be executed. The senators couldn't bear to see children so upset and so let Galba off. Now Galba was of course somewhat less than honourable compared to many of his time - that's obvious from the senatorial reaction to his trap - but as a counterpoint its worth noting what happened at Jerusalem in AD70, when the Romans assaulted the city. A huge slaughter took place but after so much killing, even the hardened legionaries were sick of it, and began capturing the jews as prisoners instead. One estimate puts the number taken away as slaves, either as labourers to Egypt, or as unforunates sold to provincial arenas, as 97,000.

The lightning revealed the outline of the brick terrace house in Swindon's Old Town. There, perched on the side of a hill, a terrible scientific experiment was about to take place. In the beige dungeons of of the house, beneath the slanting archways, Doktor Kaldrailstein made the last few adjustments to his work. Soon he would pull the industrial strength lever that allowed the electricity to flow, and breathe life into his creation. The terrible hybrid creature, made from the parts of deceased computers, lay inert on the floor. Oh hang on, I need to plug this cable in too. Ahhh, that's better. I, Doktor Kaldrailstein, will now make this computer live!.... *click* Live! Live ! Mwuahahahaaaaaa!... Oh go on, please... hang on... The screen is changing. My computer is alive!... Oh, it's all frozen up. I'll just thump it on the side here, wake it up a little.... Yes! Kaldrailsteins Monster is booting up! They all said I was mad, that it couldn't be done, but I have proved myself correct. Errr... Hang on.... This all going wrong.... No... No.... Stay back.... What have I unleashed upon the world? Good News Of the Week My PC is running. Not entirely eagerly it must be said, but I can get it going. Just thought you'd like to know before crowds of irate Swindoners chase me through the night with torches and pitchforks in indignation at my repair job.

The brutality of Roman soldiers is documented and impossible to ignore. However, before we condemn Rome entirely as the brutal place it was, remember that we're looking at this subject from modern hindsight and sentiment. Whilst I'm sure the people on the receiving end of such treatment would've probably agreed with us, if you step back and look at the ancient world we see not just a brutal city-state, but a brutal world. Life was cheap everywhere. Now I can't ignore what the Romans did - the casual slaughters of one kind or another - but the exercise of power by a city state of limited communicative abilty is bound to rely on a strong arm to enforce it's rule and influence. And if you want to survive in such a lethal political arena, then you tend to adopt the same methods or be pushed aside by more aggressive states. After all, if you cannot defend yourself, your civilisation will eventually be wiped out, and the Romans did get around to playing King of the Hill themselves. Many of Romes enemies were as brutal. The gauls were known as fierce warriros who had spread across Europe, the Germanic tribes terrified the Romans with their cruelty, and the arrival of the Huns brought their reputation with them, just to name a few examples. I think we have to understand the Roman mentality in thie slaughter of a populace. It's easy to compare it to nazi activity in World War Two, and indeed, there are parallels, but those parallels exist because human beings do business in certain ways. Rome saw itself (at it's height certainly) as the center of civilisation, a cradle of culture in a barbarous world. If a tribe decided to throw in their lot with Rome and do as the Romans, all was well. They had come into the light so too speak. I know that Rome usually had more selfish reasons for their new allies to obey laws and pay taxes, but that was the nature of Roman society and is ours much more different? However, if an enemy city had refused to open its gates, it had declared that it would defy the Senate and People of Rome. To Roman sensibilities, that was not an attitude they wanted to see nor have it encouraged by tolerance. In other words, Rome was relying on might and the reputation of ruthlessness to conduct business from a position of security. In order to achieve that reputation the act must be committed. The enemy city had sewn its own fate as it were. That said, we shouldn't dismiss the attitude toward looting either. In the slaughter and razing of an enemy town that had defied the legions allowed those soldiers to reward themselves for their service and trials on campaign. Callous, certainly, but a very practical attitude.

Scylla, I'm not wasting my time making loads of definition to suit you. If you don't know what a 'general' or a 'guerilla' is, buy a dictionary. In any case, all you're trying to do is score points. Fine, whatever, I don't care. You can believe Spartacus was a great general if you want - I'm sure many people will, it's such a wonderful image - but I'm not interested in Roman propaganda.

Not at all. I creditd him with his success. However, he wasn't a general. He was a rebel or a bandit depending on how you like to see him, not the leader of a miltary army. He achieved his early successes by being sneaky, not by victory in battle, and the latter half of his campaign was a desperate attempt to avoid confrontation. Warfare in ancient times had significant differences to the modern day. You often stress organisation in a modern sense when such things were primitive or non-existenent. No, that's wrong. The Romans weren't consistently crushed, they were outwitted dring the early half of the rebellion when the Romans underestimated Spartacus's intelligence. There are plenty of other alternative explanations for that decision. Spartacus was a rebel bandit. He didn't fight for Rome, and your comments underline those I made earlier about the romanticisation of his campaign. Plenty of historians dismiss Spartacus as an interesting footnote in history. Frontinus included him because he considered Roman legions to be the best, a matter of hindsight and incorrect evaluation of older armies against the reputations of later, more modern ones, something repeated on these forums. I doubt Frontinus was entirely objective. The same Spartacus, when besieged on the slopes of Vesuvius at the point where the mountain was steepest and on that account unguarded, plaited ropes of osiers from the woods. Letting himself down by these, he not only made his escape, but by appearing in another quarter struck such terror into Clodius that several cohorts gave way before a force of only seventy-four gladiators.This Spartacus, when enveloped by the troops of the proconsul Publius Varinius, placed stakes at short intervals before the gate of the camp; then setting up corpses, dressed in clothes and furnished with weapons, he tied these to the stakes to give the appearance of sentries when viewed from a distance. He also lighted fires throughout the whole camp. Deceiving the enemy by this empty show, Spartacus by night silently led out his troops. Strategemata, Frontinus Sounds like clever guerilla tactics to me.

It seems the Norwich By-election was grabbing the media attention last night. For those confused by the subtleties and intricacies of British politics, a by-election is the one where you don't get to run the country, so quite why the Tories are making such a big deal of Chloe Smiths victory is beyond me. Newsnight, our regular evening current affairs program, ran last nights show asking 'How did the Labour Party lose the election?'. I already know the answer to that one, it's called the vote. Another thing that bugs me is why the Monster Raving Looney Party candidates are always so jolly when they've just been soundly thrashed by established parties full of bigger idiots than they are. I speak with some authority on the subject, having once been the drummer for Screaming Lord Sutch's party band (please think about that description), and that the singer of Red Jasper (remember them?) once tried to get his dog elected as a member of Parliament. Gordon Brown of course merely states that it was "Clearly a disappointing result". Certaintly was. Not a hint of scandal whatsoever. Dear me Gordon, you are getting lazy aren't you? Potential Scandal To Watch Out For Now here's a hot tip for those thinking about which issues are going to be the big scandals of the future. Check out the electrication of the Great Western main line between Swansea and London. The one that passes through Swindon. The government are authorising an upgrade to rail travel to the tune of one billion pounds. They tell us that electric trains will be cleaner, greener, meaner, and altogether better than heavy, dirty, smelly diesels. As it happens they might well be right, but do I really want to believe a Minister of Parliament? Stimulation On the way home from that hike I took the other day I dropped into a supermarket in Old Town. Not my usual haunt, but conveniently on the route home. One bottle of Red Rooster, one of those highly caffeinated stimulant drinks, this one pleasantly fruity and cheap. Oh come on, I'm not young any more, I need these little boosts of energy (Please note - this was not product placement). The lady on the till observed that "You look tired." Uhh... Yes.... It's a heavy pack. I've walked a long way. It's been warm and wet out there. "The army uses packs like that on assault courses." She told me. Actually she's wrong, they don't, mine is a civilian one in olive green, but there you go. I told her I was too old for that sort of thing. Hopefully she'll believe that. I was way too tired for anything else and given she was twice my weight and physically incapable of fashionable clothing, my chances of survival in hand to hand combat didn't look good. Injury of the Week My wanderings around the countryside sometimes leave me with the odd injury. Mostly it's nothing at all. The odd blister, scratch, or perhaps in the most rarest circumstance, a minor bruise. Usually it's sore shoulders and tired legs, both cured by a hot bath and an evening of rest and relaxation. Unfortunately the Wiltshire wildlife sometimes gets an opportunity to cause me harm and this time they did exactly that. Some sneaky insect has sucked blood out of my arm leaving me with a persistent itchy lump. Not the first time an insect has done that to me, but annoying nonetheless.

Kubricks epic is great entertainment isn't it? All good square jawed shakespearean stuff (apart from the slightly dubious ending between Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis ) The story wasn't Kubricks of course, he merely directed the film. The producer was Douglas himself who based his screenplay on a novel by Howard Fast, so in fact the film Spartacus wasn't actually intended to be a 'historical' film, but a period drama. On the other hand, Douglas was inspired to make the film due to Fast's heroic tale of freedom for the enslaved. This is a modern interpretation of Spartacus. The marxist movement saw in him a man struggling to unchain the working class of Rome. The real Spartacus (pun intended) had no such motive. For him, slavery was something very real about the world around him. Virtually all nation states tolerated that idea in some way or other and it wasn't considered unusual or particularly harsh (though I suspect many of the enslaved saw it differently). We also have to factor in the Roman attitude to slavery. They did have a concept of personal freedom in their republican culture - it was the removal of the tyrannical and immoral King Tarquinus that brought the Republic into being, and they also had a strangely impersonal view of slavery. Once enslaved, your humanity was removed, and that was a stain upon your character thereafter. We should realise at this point that the legend of Spartacus was written by the Romans themselves. They wanted to dramatise his story for good copy in their histories, to make it an interesting read, but also to explain his success at evading the leaders the senate had chosen to capture him. How could a man of such lowly status cause so much strife in two years against the legions of Rome? The answer (and one still prevalent in modern times as the concept is underwritten by the 19th century historian Mommsen) was that he was in some way of noble birth, and the origins of a romantic vision of the rebellion is born. This is hard to reconcile with what we know. More likely he began life as a shepherd, got tired of the life tending animals, and joined the Roman auxillaries to quench his thrist for adventure. If the history is correct, he deserted. Clearly Spartacus had a rebellious streak, a man who could not conform to expected behaviour, and also a man for whom the exercise of violence was not unusual, given that he subsequently chose to become a bandit. His movement was wiped out, defeated in battle and the survivors crucified along the Appian Way. Such was the completeness of Roman victory that we don't know the real name of Spartacus - The name by which we remember him was his stage name given by his lanista, Lentulus Batiatus, as a gladiator - a common practice. Since slaves were now property, 'Talking Tools', their barbarian name was of no consequence and the owner did as he pleased which included renaming fighters for commercial reasons as much as latin convenience. The period in which Spartacus was incarcerated was a hard time for gladiators. This was during the rise in popularity of staged combat and before the professional trained athletes became the norm. The cruelty of lanistas over their property was remarked upon and Batiatus was no exception, though some observers have noted a possible carelessness? At any rate, the regime Spartacus trained under was a hard one and in no way was he cossetted. Indeed, it would appear that he escaped shortly before a large spectacular event (in which he and many others would have fought a big set-to) and by coincidence the weapons intended for this show were captured by him during the first night of freedom. But if Spartacus wasn't interested in freedom for the masses, a modern idea, what was he doing? Firstly it was survival. Spartacus was no coward, but in no way was he about to die for entertainment. The problem with the man is that he was an out and out rogue. Whether he was really an army deserter or not we can't say for sure (it was mentioned he had been in the auxillaries and was therefore not a Roman citizen) but we can be sure he was a bandit. It was for that lifestyle that he was captured and sold to the arena, a fate the Romans considered fitting. Once free, and the success of his northward escape toward the Alps filling his sails, he turns south and embarks on large scale banditry. That condemns the man in every sense. In the movie Douglas proclaims that "There's never been an army of gladiators". There never was, and historically, gladiators proved themselves to be poor troops. Spartacus had a cadre of trained fighters but the majority were escaped slaves or ordinary Romans who decided that running with Spartacus offered them a chance of a better life. Substantial numbers flocked to his cause, approaching something like 100,000 people at it's height, the vast majority of which would die by the sword or on the cross. Spartacus is often described as a brilliant general. I dispute that. He was a talented guerilla leader but a great general? He turned south when he could have escaped to freedom. He failed to secure transport with the cilician pirates. His escape from the Wall of Crassus was achieved not by tactical genius, but the huge losses of 6,000 dead, 6,000 wounded, for only 100 Roman soldiers killed. That he could lead such a large army, provide for their needs, and stay at large for two years is not contested. yet when he chose to meet the legions in a pitched battle, he sealed his fate. His army could not compete with Roman soldiery in a conventional fight. That he was recorded as dying under the weight of enemy sopldiers whilst rying to reach Crassus waiting upon his horse is the stuff of legend, yet for all his natural rebelliousness, greed, and naivety, you can't help believing he was something of the hero we desperately want him to be.

I sat down last night to write up my thoughts for the day as I usually do. Most of it concerned the days odyssey into the wilds of Darkest Wiltshire, walking the hills and dales of the Marlborough Downs, documenting the variable weather and its obvious effect upon me. Truth is, what happened yesterday was something more important than a mere journal of yet another hike along familiar paths. Instead, it was two encounters with wild animals that made all the difference. Usually such meetings are very fleeting experiences as the animal makes a quick exit, more concerned with its own survival than anything that brought it there. There are occaisions when the experience is just as short but more intimate, something much deeper and more vivid. This sort of thing happens rarely, but regular readers of my reminisences might remember my encounter with a fox as I played truant from a school cross country run. Or before that, the robust gaze of a female black panther suckling her cubs at a wildlife park, impressing upon me the potential for violence within her. In each case there was for a short time an unspoken communication. You sense what the animal is thinking, it's character, and I'm pretty sure the animal senses who you are and your intent. It's a genuinely strange experience. Have you ever bumped into a stranger and felt you've known this person for a lifetime? The feeling is similar. Hello Mr Robin The long but gentle ascent of Smeathes Ridge is very wearing on the legs with a pack on your back, and having already spent hours walking southward on the old railway line I was in need of a rest. A farmhouse cafe was nearby. It seemed a good idea at the time. I must be honest, I'm not a person who needs much sophistication in life, however pleasurable it can be in small doses. So I opted for a cheeseburger and sat down on the wooden bench to enjoy my somewhat expensive meal. The little robin startled me by hopping on to the edge of the table beside me. I'm not used to small birds being that bold. Clearly it had designs on my food and stood there waiting hopefully for a chance to fly away with something. It cocked its head sideways, staring at me. It was happening. I knew this bird. A cheerful character albeit a cocky one. I moved too quickly and instinct took over. The robin retreated to the next table and sat down to wait patiently for some pickings off my plate. Sorry Mr Robin, I can't encourage you to hassle clients of the cafe. But nice meeting you all the same. Hello Mr Hawk There's a long cinder path leading down off the plateau that I sometimes use. After a distance the barbed wire fences are buried by lines of trees either side. Under one of those trees I became aware of a hearty birdcall above me. My attention was diverted from the approaching rainclouds and I looked up. There he was. A medium size hawk of some species I don't recognise. He looked down at me, making loud cries, spreading his wings as if it meant to display it's presence. Hello Mr Hawk. Why are you trying to attract my attention? Ahh, you're just fed up aren't you? You thought this would be a quiet spot and it turns out we humans use it a bit too much. Sorry about that. I don't know if the hawk actually understood my demeanour or simply got annoyed, but it decided to fly somewhere else anyhow. What To Make Of It? Our distant ancestors clearly evolved spiritual beliefs concerning animals that our archaeologists uncover on a regular basis, and such concepts are still present in the modern day if you search for them. I can see why they occur. Connecting with an animal of another species is something special, revealing something not only about the animal concerned, but also ourselves and our place in the natural order of things. If you have any religious beliefs, I daresay your answers must be apparent to you. I have my own answers. Not entirely religious ones either. Just an observation about an experience I shared with two wild birds that day.

Browsing through the local paper this morning I came across an interview with Master Shortie, Swindons very own rap star. Who? Never heard of him. I suspect no-one older than eighteen has either. The interview was of course unintentionally hilarious. I'm sure his music career is taking off and I wish him well, but since he made such an effort to say exactly lthe same things every other rap artist in the business does, you could hardly claim he was being original. He also proclaimed that working hard is necessary to get what you want. A very laudable attitude young man, but I don't believe for a moment you know what hard work is. In any case, hard work merely increases someone elses profits. Working hard for someone who supports your efforts is what you need. That, unfortunately, requires you lick peoples bottoms and whilst you're doing that, you're not working hard. Such is life. Master Shortie explained that getting up every day to do something musical was great, as if he'd discovered some transcendental nirvana and felt the need to preach the good word. Okay, it was an interview, so I guess he has to say these things to please the media, his fans, and his critics. The reason I'm so cynical is that his views are artificially idealistic, and in any case, I doubt he could get out of bed for anything else. A Day In The Life Of An Aspiring Rock Drummer So how was it for me back in the days when rock stardom was an elusive carrot dangling in front of my starstruck eyes? Let's go back in time.... Mwuahahahahaaaaaaaa..... It is now 1987... First thing is to be at work at eight o'clock. No choice there at all. The bills need top be paid and a drum kit is an expensive mistress, especially since you always need to replace or add to it. On top of that is the car I needed to cart the collection of cylindrical boxes around. I was driving an old Nissan Cherry back then, a sort of metallic green hatchback that went everywhere. I was once asked why I didn't give anyone a lift to and from gigs. Had they seen what was in the car? The only free space was the drivers seat. At least the car was cheap and reliable to run, although my insurance had gone up considerably after I collided with some idiot who thought he had the right of way to cross a lane of traffic in his van. Anyhow, work through the morning as an order picker in a warehouse. Physical stuff nonetheless, and some heavy lifting required, but at lunchtime it was time to drive home, have lunch, load my drum kit into the car for the evening performance, then back to work, all in the space of an hour. After my working day was finished at five in the afternoon, it was off to the gig. That could be anywhere in Britain. London and Bristol especially, along the M4 corridor, but also the south coast, the west country, midlands, and on a regular basis some obscure gig in the north of England. Set up, soundcheck, play the gig. I would come off stage drenched in sweat and sometimes with blistered hands. pack up, including helping the guys with their gear too, and travel home, arriving very tired around two or four o'clock in the morning. I had exactly the same routine to go through the next day. And the next. And... Well, you get the picture. So, Mister Shortie, have you really worked hard to get where you are?

You can include me too AC.