The scientist’s planning had been meticulous. He knew the time machine was a one way trip but he also knew, in his heart of hearts that it was worth it.
The world he was leaving behind hadn't been kind to him. He had worked hard for his degree, his master's and then his doctorate but for what? That world didn't respect his intellect. That world was obsessed with skin deep beauty and flash in the pan fads. He was going to a time where intellect was power and power was intellect, everything else could be bought.
The bewildering thing about the time travel was that, as long as you were naked, it didn't hurt. (Someone apparently found out the hard way that the time machine’s sensors couldn't see where skin ended and clothes began). The scientist, for his own reassurance checked himself as best a man could without the aid of a mirror. He laughed out loud when he saw that his tattoos were intact. He had half expected them to fade before his eyes as the course of history changed.
He had brought with him the most powerful weapon that could survive his space time journey; knowledge. It had taken him months to weed out a millennium's worth of science down to its bare bones and he had concluded that he would need more than his intellect could retain.
Scientific symbols and formulae stretched over his limbs in indelible blacks and blues. The tattooist he'd employed had said he loved the work as it was so different from the usual Polynesian tribal pattern or ‘Yakuza koi carp, cultural appropriation, which seemed to be the norm. The intricate instructions for forging stainless steel the tattooist had described as ‘awesome’ and the chemical symbols for gunpowder and nitroglycerine were ironically ‘really cool’. The annotated designs for a steam boiler were now apparently a tattoo shop favourite.
Finally, his mind assured he was intact, the Scientist set about taking his bearings.
He was in a heavily wooded part of what in the future would be called Gloucestershire. Part of his intricate planning had been the rudimentaries of bush-craft and he started heading South East looking for the plants he'd need to clothe and feed himself.
As his eyes searched the forest floor for a sharp rock his mind wondered falling back on a reliable daydream. Oh, what dreams; when your ambition is nothing less than world domination your dreams get pretty wild. He had long decided that he'd keep a harem, a girl from every corner of his empire, maybe one for each day of the year. Virgins, he had concluded, would be the way to avoid STDs in an age without antibiotics. He was confident that he would soon find a road and that following that would, eventually lead to where he was headed. After all, all roads lead to Rome.
It had been a rough tour for the legionnaires currently on patrol. The Dubunni had put up a tough fight in the face of the Roman occupation and their was now a guerrilla war being fought in the dense forests carpeting the valley of the river Severn. As ever when the empire faced insurgency, their orders had been brutal. Carrying them out had been no easy task even for these veterans of the Germanic front.
The Centurion looked away as the last child was strung up and saw a couple of legionnaires escorting a new prisoner toward him. He was surprised to see that the prisoner was naked but not so shocked to see that the man was covered in intricate blue and black markings. Most the tribes in Britain marked themselves in this way.
The lead legionnaire saluted. ‘found him on the perimeter sir. Walked up bold as brass. Can't say I'm familiar with his language but he's chatting away two to the dozen.’
The Centurion looked at the prisoner. He was strange looking skinnier and paler than most of the Britons he'd seen. The prisoner took the Centurion’s cold stare as a cue to start talking. The Centurion knew four or five languages from the borders of the empire but couldn't understand the prisoner, his manner seemed too genteel for a Briton.
“...so you see I hadn't expected to come across a military presence it hadn't come up in my research if you could just let me go…” The prisoner, the Scientist, had just realised that he had made a crucial mistake; He had neglected to learn Latin. It hadn't even occurred to him; he had been so wrapped up in accumulating his tattoos, besides that, all the modern depictions of Romans speak American English, or American English in an Australian accent. He rattled his brain for any Latin he may know. The Centurion drew his sword. The scientist panicked, noticing for the first time the burning village and the crucified women and children.
As the sword reached his throat his mind finally found a word: ‘Fellatio!’ The scientist screamed.
The centurion stopped. He had come to the conclusion that this weak man was, no doubt, a simple minded house slave of the Dubbunni. At a guess, he supposed that the prisoner was from one of the tribes of the far north or across the sea to the west. Either way he hadn't been expecting him to offer oral sex. ‘Fellatio?’
‘Fellatio?’ The scientist gulped, he didn't know whether to thank or curse his quick thinking. ‘carpe diem?’ he said, ‘for fuck sake’ he thought.
‘Seize the day’ The Centurion chuckled. The slave's body was somewhat soft kind of like that of a eunuch, but obviously not so. Personally he wasn't interested, having had his pick of the tribes women, but he had stopped a few of his men from abusing the children before they were strung up. Perhaps this slave will placate them. It had been a long tour.
He raised his voice ‘This slave is offering Fellatio! Anyone wishing to partake form a queue. The last man cut his throat! I want to be able to sleep sound in my tent tonight and we all know the legend of the Trojan Horse!’