Two

The General in charge of the guard was a wiry, tough man in his late forties called Gaius Decimus. Luckily, he was not the General Augustus that Rory was supposed to have been sent by, nor was he in direct contact with him, so Decimus couldn't really check whether Rory's orders really were to accompany the box back to Rome. Decimus just accepted them.

Another thing Decimus accepted extraordinarily readily was the appearance of the daleks on the second day. As the slaves dragged them out on long ropes, accidently chipping a large piece off one as it was heaved to the surface; the rest of the guard automatically took a few steps back.

'What are they?' said Tertius.

'They look like… sentries', murmured a dark-haired man called Atellus,' like guards'.

'They aren't', said Rory.

Everyone turned to face him.

'There's just statues- that's all', he shuffled uncomfortably.

After-images… shadows.

It took all his willpower not to edge away from the dead stone daleks. He didn't want to appear weak in front of the men, but he kept imagining the eyestalk swivelling round, looking at him. Perhaps wondering how the programming of one of their duplicates could go so wrong.

Rory got to know the Romans a lot during the months that followed, as they slowly excavated into the under-henge, widening the steps so they could take the full bulk of the Pandorica. As well as Tertius and Attilius, there was Atellus, the dark-haired builder, in charge of the slaves; Gemellus, a centurion like Rory but serving in Italy, who hated the cold; Lupus, the dark-skinned legionnaire who was built wide and solid as a brick wall; and Costa, who still slightly disliked Rory, after he had laughed so hard when he first heard his name. Rory also got to know the slaves, to the bemusement of the rest of the guard. There was Ardan, the brit, Polites the greek, Cato the never-specified. There was also a well-built Nubian who never spoke to Rory or any other Roman, save to accept orders.

Their camp was pitched outside the circle of stone-henge. As well as the tent Rory had seen when he first emerged from the under-henge, which belonged to General Decimus, there was a tent for the centurions; Costa- and Roranicus of course; a tent for the legionnaires; Tertius, Attilius, Lupus, Gemellus and Atellus. There was a tent for the slaves and beyond that, the weapons tent, which currently housed alongside the swords, javelins, shields and armour; two stone daleks. The horses were kept in a makeshift stable consisting of a roughly built fence further away, with the wagon.

It was now Rory found that the year was 118 AD. He had been dreaming for 16 years.

It was quite a shock, to be honest. To discover one day you are now in your early forties. Forty-four to be exact. Who was he kidding- that was mid forties. He shook his head. He'd have to get used to it. He'd be 2000 before he saw Amy again.

'You alright, Roranicus?' it was Attilius. He had noticed Rory shake his head, as he, Lupus, Costa and Atellus sat round the fire. Everyone was eating, save for Rory. He hadn't been able to eat, not since he… found out. Not that he'd had the opportunity- but he'd never felt like eating, and now the feeling was being proved right.

'Oh yeah-fine'.

If the doctor was here, he'd know why- he'd at least have a few theories. Rory had been human. He had eaten. He had done human things, and he had felt human. Even now, by firelight, he pushed his thumb into the skin of his arm and it gave. It wasn't rigid like plastic.

'You seem a little pre-occupied', continued Attilius, finishing his share of the deer he and Lupus had hunted that morning, and throwing the bones into the undergrowth.

'Thinking about home', said Rory slowly.

He had thought he was human- and he had eaten. Maybe… now he knew he didn't have to… But that was stupid. Silly.

So thought the immortal plastic centurion from Leadworth as he spoke to a bunch of Romans at the end of the world.

Lupus had looked up,' you're from Italy?' he said. Rory knew from past evening that Lupus came from a town called Brundisium, in the far south of the country- the 'heel' of Italy.

'No', said Rory,' I'm from a minor settlement here… place called… Leadworth- ium'.

He cringed inside, but they didn't stare at him sceptically, just continued to eat without relish, and poke the fire till it leapt higher.

Atellus seemed amused. He nudged Costa saying,' another native, then. You two could start a club'.

Rory smiled weakly as Costa elbowed Atellus in the ribs, not looking un-amused himself.

'You're from England? Anywhere around here?' inquired Rory.

Costa looked quizzical- he didn't inquire as to what the centurion meant by "Ing-land", just shook his head and replied,' born in the Camulodunum'.

Rory looked blank.

'Former capital?' Costa looked sceptical,' you know what the capital is now, don't you?'

Rory had not studied the Romans since Primary school year 3,'… Londinium?' he said tentatively.

Atellus grinned,' and here was us thinking you knew nothing!'

Rory shrugged. He realized that he had known all about Londinium and Camulodunum before. He wondered whether to be worried about this. Was he forgetting his life as a centurion? Or was this a good thing? To forget as he went along? To have 2000 years of memory stuffed in his head… Maybe it was a good thing.

He realized Atellus had said something to him.

'Sorry what?' he inquired, and for some reason the Romans found this funny.

'I said', said Atellus,' you do know which capital we're headed for now, don't you?'

Rory smiled widely,' you mean we're not bound for Londinium? I packed for the cold!'

They laughed. This was strange- Rory hanging around with guys, making them laugh. Rory had mates back home of course, but these Romans translated into modern times would be the football-louts; loud, joking and keen players. Rory had never made a crowd like this laugh.

'Come on centurion', Lupus had joined in,' keep guessing'.

Rory screwed up his face, enjoying himself,' hmm…' he frowned in mock puzzlement,' Paris?'

'You can't just make words up, centurion', laughed Lupus, finally tossing his animal bones- picked clean, onto the fire.

The evenings passed quickly in this fashion, and soon the day came when the stairs were wide enough to take the box, and the steps had been filled in with something like cement, creating a smooth slope.

The slaves strained against the ropes. From down in the underhenge, Rory could only imagine how much strain they were putting into it. The Pandorica was heavy- made of some strange, alien metal. Even hollow he could hardly believe they were doing it. Without the help of the rollers the weaker slaves were slotting underneath it, it would have been impossible.

'I often wondered', Rory lied,' Why does the Emporer Trajan want the Pandorica? How did he even hear about it?'

Down in the under-henge with him, watching as Tertias, Attilius, Gemellus and Lupus helped shore up the underside of the Pandorica, preventing it from sliding back into the underground chamber, was Costa. The older man shrugged,' soothsayers I believe', he said.

'Soothsayers?'

'Prophets'.

'Prophets?'

'Yes'.

'But… there's no such thing', Rory looked at Costa,' is there?'

Costa sighed,' in all honesty? He probably paid the location off someone who was lucky enough to stumble across it and not rich enough to bring it home themselves'.

Rory frowned because he didn't remember anyone finding him and the pandorica. No- Attilius and Tertius had been the first. He was sure of it. He said nothing, however, and continued to oversee the slow lifting of the pandorica from the chamber, for the most part with his stomach twisted, anxious.

Because he was the guard- it was his job to be.

It took the rest of the day to gently ease the Pandorica out of its underground home; and most of the night to carefully haul it into the back of a wagon and cover it over with heavy, protective sheets, like tarpaulin.

They said their good-nights that night with light hearts- tomorrow they were going home.

As always Rory lay, pretending to sleep, covered with a blanket looking up at the tent roof. The night was remarkably still- the unrelenting snow had finally stopped and all was quiet. He found himself thinking odd thoughts.

Was it so hot in Italy he would melt?

If he had to fight, and got stabbed, would he mould back together like the Terminator? Or would he be broken like that for the rest of his "life"?

How would the doctor find him? How, 2000 years in the future, could anyone pick up a trail that old?

Rory sighed, listening for a while to the unconscious paradox of his own breathing. He truly had been expertly made. He scented, tasted. He felt. At the moment he felt loneliness and determination and excitement and fear and, ever so slightly, boredom. Dreaming for 16 years was one thing. Here he had to pretend to be human.

Pretend to be human.

He almost laughed. Drawing parallels between himself and the doctor. That was always fun.

Gently, he rolled over. Costa was breathing gruffly and heavily across the tent. If he listened hard he could hear the faint sounds from the other tents too.

Eventually, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to dream awhile.