Caesar and his invasion army land on the southern shores of Britain and immediately begin terrorising the natives, burning villages, wreaking havoc and generally taking over. The local English chieftains, whilst drinking tea, consider what to do.
?I think we should go down there and give these Roman chappies a damn good thrashing? says one. The others agree and the tribes charge at the invaders. Within hours the English are routed and lie bleeding and dying on the battlefield, victims of the most advanced fighting force on the planet.
This story is repeated as the Roman army pushes north. Local chieftains and tribes are defeated by the hundred, few escape and the Romans are beginning to enjoy themselves. Eventually the army crosses the Scottish Border and camps beneath a mist enshrouded mountain. After an uncomfortable night listening to strange bagpipe music drifting down from the hills Caesar looks out of his tent and sees a lone unarmed Scotsman, naked to the waist and wearing only a kilt standing on the summit.
?Come on then!? taunts the lone Scot to the Roman army below. Caesar commands six legionnaires to climb the hill and deal with the native. The legionnaires shuffle off and ascend into the highland mist which closes about them. The army below hears screams and groans. The mist opens and the lone Scotsman comes dancing back to the summit - not a mark on him - and taunts the army ?Come on then, is that all you?ve got??
Caesar is now mightily displeased and orders two hundred legionnaires and ten chariots up the hill. The mist closes and the army listens in dread for the next two hours as the air is rent by the screams of dying men and horses. The screams suddenly stop and a single chariot wheel rolls to a stop by Caesar ?s feet. The mist opens once more to reveal the Scotsman, still unmarked, gesticulating to the Romans and displaying a remarkably hairy backside as he raies his kilt in defiance.
Caesar is by now irate in the extreme and orders everyone to attack. Three thousand legionnaires, four hundred chariots and sixteen cook wagons thunder up the mountain and once more grey mist closes about them.
For a day and a night the sounds of terrible battle echo amongst the hills and glens. Caesar sitting on his horse on the plain below is a veteran of many campaigns but he cannot remember hearing such sounds of suffering, the crash of weapons is deafening, the dying screams and gurgles of men and animals intolerable.
As he waits for news of the battle one badly maimed legionnaire returns dragging his mangled body from tuft of grass to tuft of grass with the only arm he has left. He stops below Caesar?s horse and looks up with his one good eye at his illustrious leader.....
?Caesar? he croaks ?Caesar, don?t go! It?s a trap?
?There?s two of them!?