How ridiculous? Why did they give him fine Italian designer footwear. It was useless in this damned country. He was not happy, left to patrol on his own, high on the path along Congleton Edge. He tried to step to the side of the gouged puddles in the dark mud. But the footwear had no grip, slipping and sending him lurching into the deepest part where the cold black mud squeezed up through his toes and around his ankles. Urghhhhh! Useless! Why couldn't he have the waterproof leather boots the locals had, which was far better suited to winter in Britain? God he hated this place! What was it about these people that made them build their roads through the highest and roughest part of the landscape. Their Pennine Way was their highway.. Ha ! what a joke he thought as he stumbled forward, the mud clagging around his bare feet. Sandals were so wrong! How could you expect to rule the World wearing sandals?
He was not in a good mood, left to walk this route on his own. It was winter FFS, though the recent snow had now thawed and vanished. Thankfully it was dry today, even a bit mild, a gentle breeze blowing through the old woodland that rose up the ridge on either side to meet at the top on each side of the path. There was an old moss-covered wall that ran along the ridge top, a boundary between the ancient shires. This part was once called Legeceasterscir. He couldn't pronounce the local names. But then the locals were heathens that barely communicated much more than grunts in his opinion, so it didn't matter. Oh why had they sent him to this place? It was shit.
Still he plodded on. His mind floated to a place far away. Away from the pestilence. A better place where his mates had the comfort of the barracks, hot food, beer, good company, dry beds and oh! hot baths! Someone to talk to! Yup, he felt like an outcast from Deva to the west. He had to do three more weeks of this before he would be replaced and could return.
On he plodded, eyes lowered to gauge the slippery mud and puddles and pick a route avoiding the worst of it. So he didn't spot the top of a head bobbing as it came up the gradient of the path towards him. Once spotted his eyes were fixed intently on the creature coming towards him.
Weird! They looked so odd. Strange attire he wasn't familiar with at all. Almost alien! But he wasn't intimidated. He was boss here.
The distance between them narrowed, now down to about 30 paces, and it appeared to him to be a past her best female of the local species judging by the set of her face, although she wore a steely determination that unsettled him slightly and tensed his nerves. She was panting quite hard from coming up the hill, a big pack on her back. But she moved quickly on her toes with short, little steps up the hill, ably powered by well shaped thighs and buttocks. So it was a few more paces before she looked up and noticed him now stood by the side of the path waiting for her to come by.
And he saw her face open up in surprise, a hint of anxiety at his imposing presence. Her lips parted, a little sensuously he thought, but slowly they broke into a smirk. Quizzical, surprise, bemused! He guessed she was thinking, WTF. OK, he felt a little conspicuous wearing filthy sandals with black mud oozing up through his toes and it wouldn't be every day she would meet someone like him. But she checked herself, reasoned with what she was seeing, and then continued to advance. Her face creased into a grin and she licked her lip in readiness to speak, a twinkle shining from her eyes asking a question of the man stood ahead of her.
He knew he was an impressive specimen. He had had the finest bronze breastplates made by Chobham Armour in the south of Britain. It replicated his well toned chest muscles and abs in shimmering bronze. He had only just polished it up the night before in his Mow Cop digs and he was especially proud of the purple plume on his fabulous helmet.. Yes, he was confident he was well turned out today
She came closer. And spoke in a way he could barely understand. Of course if she hadn't been laughing so much she would have got the words out more clearly. "Who the f--- are you?" she enquired incredulously. So uncouth too. Cheeky sow. He would have happily given her a poke with his pilum to show her who is boss. But he had already sized her up and reckoned she could fight like a cat, teeth and claws and all. But he was bored, and desperately needed some fun. Hmmmm. She could be trouble
"I, young madam (he thought it best to flatter her) am Inappropriatus Maximus, Covid Marshall for all these parts" letting it hang in the air with import. And now I need to ask you some questions" as he reached for a small stylus he kept in his tunic. There was further fumbling as he dug out a nice piece of smooth slate he kept close up against his skin, feeling how nice and warm it was in his hand, as he prepared to write..
"OK, name?"
She refused to tell him
"Where is your domus? he asked patiently
"Not telling you, you facist pig" she replied defiantly
"I must remind you you are not allowed more than one thousand pedes from your domus within the period of this pestilence"
She replied, "I don't give a fook" she replied. I'm not doing what some weird geezer dressed up as a Roman Centurion standing on a hill says. That's an offensive weapon you have in your hand, and I'm calling the Police.
And with that she pushed on past him and carried on up the track, little bottom following neatly behind. The centurion might have rushed after her to apprehend her but his fine Italian designer footwear was his undoing as he slipped on the mud and fell backwards, tumbling head over heels down the hillside between the trees. When the story of the incident eventually reached the Daily Mail such was the little ladies contempt for the Centurion and his Rules that it started a movement which became known as the start of the fall of the Roman Empire.
