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Chapter VIII

CHAPTER VIII

Rufus sat on General Malitus’ folding chair, inside the Roman’s tent. The commander didn’t need it at the moment. His frenzy of movement ran, too busy outside trying to direct which of his men of the veteran caste died next. The boy thought of the tent around him, made of a canvas fabric foreign to Britannia, or at least it was before these red crested pricks showed up. They changed most things with their arrival. Even the trails from town to town had rougher, flatter surfaces . . . better to wheel their cargoes of death with. This was called progress and civilization to them. In all of their technical brilliance, they marveled at the stone henges and couldn’t fathom how such primitives transported the slabs without good roads. Such was their folly.

He pondered the simple tents of his people, ones they used on hunting trips or camped in after quickly fought battles. They were of the earth, hides mostly, common and warm, sewn to perfection by nimble fingers. These tents f
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