Word count: around 750

Genre: humour

Rating: worksafe

Note: Inspired by an article about Londinium that I read in the Swedish magazine "Världens Historia". The article's headline translates to something like "Rome forced the Brits to bath". Now, you can see how that had to be written, don't you? Pardon my poor attempts at Celtic and Old British =__=;;

A shrill scream pierced the air of the early afternoon, in the Roman town of Londinium, by the river of Thames. It made a few people stop in their tracks and turn their heads in curiosity towards the tall and fresh-looking marble building which the Romans had just recently finished building near the centre of the city. For those who had less important tasks to get back to once they had confirmed that no one was being beaten or killed right in front of them on the open street, sneaking a quick peak in between the high pillars, soon became less tempting as they had caught glimpse of the tall Roman inside. Not only was the man scandalously naked – well, it was a bathhouse, after all – but he also carried with him a small, blond child. Judging by the child's dirty appearance and fierce language, it must be either a savage or a slave, and everyone knew what the Romans did with savages and slaves (or so they thought).

Since no-one wanted part of spying on such a scene – much less being seen spying on such a scene – the streets outside the bathhouse had soon gone back to their normal pace, with people carrying their good from and to the market-place, artists (both Roman and British) showing off their skills at the corners and competing for space with the beggars that the guards had yet not gotten to.

Despite no one watching, the scene in the bathhouse continued its inevitable course. The child on the tall, strong Roman's shoulder was going to get what was coming to him despite his struggling and shouting (and, at one point, biting the man's throat, which for some reason only caused him to laugh heartily). Once the two reached the side of the pool, the man set the child – a boy – down and, while holding him in place with one large hand, grabbed for a jar of heated water with the other.

The boy, soon thoroughly soaked, sputtered and stared at the Roman.

"What doth thou think thou are doing, roman dog?" The boy's use of language didn't get any better with the washing, unfortunately. The Roman man shook his head and shrugged, still with that ever-present smile on his mouth. This seemed to infuriate the child even more, and his face scrounged up into a scowl darker than a thunderstorm, made even darker by the massive eyebrows.

"Do we really need to explain it to you again, Britannia?" the man asked. "We're going to give you a bath, a proper bath, with oils and soap and warm wate—"

"Dangeth it, thou still dare call me filthy, I've bathed since long before thou set thou damned sandals on my soil—"

"No, no, no, little Britannia, not bathed; you've washed, in rivers and lakes like the poor, uncultivated savage you are, but you haven't bathed."

"Póg mo thóin, Britannia is not the name of me, I am Albion—"

"Yes, now take this and lather yourself. If you don't prefer that I do it for you?"

"Titim gan éirí ort."

"…I said, and that's exactly what happened to him, many years later. Now, tell me again that my curses do not work, why don't you?" England finished his story with a pleased smile on his lip. America's gaping made it necessary for him to lower his gaze into his teacup as he took a sip, lest he'd end up smiling all too openly at the boy's wonder.

"England…?" America asked him, wonder lacing his voice.

"Yes, lad?"

"You were really good at swearing when you were little, weren't you?"

England winced. "It is a custom which I – like any good Christian – have put aside a long time ago, America," he said, his thought going to his ships and how he'd have to make sure to school the crew not to swear in front of the young colony. Nor act like it was common for England to do the same. It wouldn't look good if he warned the boy to do bad by the ways of the Lord, only to prove himself a hypocrite.

At least he had cut the story short to exclude the part where the young nation whom would long of late be named Great Britain swiftly delivered his venomous words together with a well-aimed punch to the Roman Empire's crotch. He wasn't sure that would prove to be a good example to present to America either.

End note: Póg mo thóin – Kiss my behind (Celtic) | Titim gan éirí ort – May you fall without rising (Celtic)

End note the second: Albion is the oldest known name for the island of Great Britain. Thank you bloodysnow_chan livejournal who provided me with this information.