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'Wouldn't surprise me one bit, sir,' muttered the centurion.
'Well, then?'
'To be honest, Legate, it's - confusing.
We march, we fight, we march again, we fight some more. Fair enough, that's a soldier's life. But - '
'But?' encouraged the Doctor.
'We never seem to get anywhere.
Sometimes it's little local skirmishes, like now, and sometimes we join with the other legions and fight a
proper battle. But nothing changes. We sustain casualties, reinforcements arrive from somewhere, but they
seem as confused as we are. There's never any leave, never any news from home...'
'Don't your generals keep you informed about the campaign?'
'Hardly ever see 'em, sir. One of 'em turns up now and again, riding a fine white horse and ordering another
attack...
'The lads reckon they all live in a posh villa somewhere, eating lark's tongues, swigging Falernian wine and
planning another battle between orgies.'
Now that he'd got started, the centurion seemed eager to talk. The
Doctor sensed it must be his first relief for some time from the proverbial loneliness of command.
'Then there's the enemy, they seem to keep - changing. Sometimes it's the Picts - hairy little beggars who
usually attack at night. Sometimes it's a full-scale army - Gauls or Germans, real soldiers with cavalry and
everything.
But we never really seem to win - or lose either, come to that. We just go on fighting.' He paused.'And
strange things happen ..."
'Such as?'
'Occasionally we run into little groups of men in weird clothes. Some of 'em have weapons that sound like
thunderbolts and kill from a long way away.'
'Do they attack you?'
'Not always. Some of them want to talk - weird stuff about resistance, and the war being all a game. I tell the
men to chase them away. Can't have mutiny, can we?'The centurion lowered his voice. 'The other day, not far
from here we found this great big
- wagon, I suppose you'd call it, sitting on the road, with a group of weird-looking people standing round it.
There was only a handful of 'em and we reckoned the wagon might be full of enemy supplies, so we attacked.'
'What happened?'
The centurion lowered his voice. "The strangers jumped back in the wagon and it moved away, back into the
mist
- all by itself? No horses, nobody pushing, nothing! And once it was in
the mist, it, well, disappeared!'
'You mean you lost sight of it?'
'No, it really disappeared. Just kind of... faded away.'
The Doctor thought for a moment.
'Can you tell me anything else about this wagon?'
'Not really - just a big, square thing.
Oh, it had some kind of religious symbol painted on the side.'
'What sort of symbol?'
'That cranky cult that was spreading back in Rome - the one the Emperor was so down on. What were they
called
- Christoes, Christies, something like that.'
'Christians,' said the Doctor. 'You mean there was a cross on the wagon?'
'That's right. A red cross on the side.'
Suddenly the centurion grabbed the
Doctor's arm. 'Do you know what's going on, Legate? Something is, by
Mithras! This is no normal war!'
Gently the Doctor freed himself. 'I think you're right. And I'm afraid I don't know what's going on, but I intend to
find out. Now I'd better be on my way.'
The centurion jumped to his feet and helped the Doctor to rise. His manner became suddenly formal, as if he
regretted having talked so freely. He raised his voice. 'Company, prepare to march!'
The men began forming themselves into ranks.
'Where exactly did you see this wagon?' asked the Doctor casually.
The centurion pointed. 'Up that path, sir, way back in the hills.' He inspected the re-formed ranks. 'Company,
salute!'
Once again the swords and spears crashed across the bronze
breastplates.
The centurion turned to the Doctor.
'Hail and farewell, Legate.'
'Hail and farewell,' said the Doctor solemnly.
Battered and battle-weary, but still disciplined and indomitable, the little company of Roman soldiers moved
off.
Unbidden, another Roman expression came into the Doctor's mind, as he watched them march away.
'Those who are about to die salute you.'
He turned and moved away up the path.
***
As the Doctor followed the path into the hills, he thought about what the centurion had said. This was
certainly no normal war.
Not with percussion weapons and internal combustion vehicles interacting with Roman legionaries.
He began to ponder the strange workings of his own mind. His memory loss, it seemed, was by no means
total. He knew that Romans were
Romans and that a legate was a high-ranking official.
He knew about the internal
combustion engine and about guns, and that guns and Romans didn't belong together. His mind seemed to
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