For Pilyarquitect and Filosofie, again, and CrazyBeaver, always.

Fotogenix and Fulliautomatix, who lived closest, plus Vitalstatistix and his shield-bearers, were already at the scene of the fire when Asterix sprinted up, still in his nightclothes like them. Some dry brush had caught alight just inside the fence on the east side of the village; the blaze, though small, seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. The village cockerel was crowing frantically, chickens scuttling to and fro and Dogmatix barking for all he was worth. There were lights starting to come on in the huts as people lit candles from their hearths, but as yet no-one else had arrived. The four men – the chief now off his shield and working alongside them – were scooping up handfuls of earth to throw on the flames.

"Here!" Asterix shouted breathlessly. He had taken the time to grab a bucket of water from the well nearest his house, and handed it to Fulliautomatix, knowing the taller man would have a better angle to douse the blaze.

"Thanks—" His eyes catching Asterix's in gratitude, the blacksmith slung the bucket at the base of the flames, the way they had been taught to do as children, letting the water slosh out in a wet, heavy arc. They were rewarded with a satisfying splash and sizzle as the flames disappeared under the onslaught, leaving a burnt, wet patch of earth.

The men looked at each other, breathing hard. Asterix could feel his heart pounding. He could tell by the pallor of the others' faces that they were shaken, too. He took a deep breath. "Well, that's that," he panted. Dogmatix yipped beside him, and he bent to pick up his faithful pet, rubbing his furry head. "We—"

He'd been about to say something about being careful of the summer heat and dry kindling, but was silenced by a cry from the far end of the village. "Fire!"

It was a little before dawn when the little army worm came knocking on Latraviata's tent. He didn't peep inside, and it was a good thing, too, or she'd have scratched his eyes out, Caesar's envoy or no. She wrapped her traveling-cloak around her to hide her hair disheveled from sleep, and stepped out, making sure to tower above him.

But the Roman agent's usual supercilious air wasn't there. He looked… shaken?

"C—continue on your way," he commanded, voice far from steady. "Stop at midday, and try to coax… Obelix… to have a big meal. I want to t—try entering his dreams during his siesta."

Latraviata inclined her head. He was already turning away. I suppose that answers my question as to whether he'll be traveling with us.

The birds started to chirp as she stared after him, frowning. More and more, Latraviata was getting the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

She still wasn't sure exactly what she was doing – other than breaking Asterix's heart – but she had learned one thing: Getting Obelix away from the village was taking away a part of its defenses. That was basic military strategy.

And she had friends among the villagers. Possibly even this great mastodon among them.

This has gone far enough.

It was time to warn Obelix. Only… warn him of what, exactly?

She had already told him that she was sent to take him away from the village. He knew. What could she tell him that he didn't already know?

It was starting to grow light, and still Latraviata stood there, thinking. What did she know that Obelix didn't? Nothing. He shared her knowledge of the masquerade of the sham marriage. He knew that Asterix had to believe the engagement was genuine. He knew that Latraviata's mission was to pose as his bride and take him to Rome. In short, he knew as much as she did at this point.

As the first rays of the sun lit up the sky, Latraviata nodded decisively. Warning Obelix was the wrong course to take. What she had to do was find some way to get answers from the Roman shaman-spy-whatever in Juno's name he was. Perhaps she could eavesdrop on whatever he was saying to Obelix next time. After lunch. That sounded like a plan.

That decided, Latraviata turned back through the wagon flap to commence her coiffure.

Asterix had lost count of the number of fires he'd put out. The blaze on the eastern side of the village had been followed by one by the western wall, and they'd barely put that one out when there had been another out behind Vitalstatistix's hut. At some point, he'd dashed over to his house to dress and grab his gourd of potion, from which he'd drunk more than once to be able to carry more water, move faster, be available, keep the village safe.

Now more than ever, as he dashed from conflagration to conflagration, he was sure of one thing: these were no random summer fires. These were deliberate, and though he'd seen no Romans around, he still saw no more likely candidate.

"Asterix! Over here!"

He ran over to another fire. He was busy putting them out, but he couldn't help using his head, trying to fathom the logic behind these attacks. These were no flame-loaded ballistae; these tiny fires were innocuous in themselves. The Romans were fighting them with a swarm of tiny mosquitoes, not a raging lion. And the question would not leave Asterix's head: why?

This had to be part of a larger plan. The Romans must know that they couldn't keep setting fires indefinitely. Or – perhaps they could, of course, in shifts, leaving the villagers no time to see to their own affairs. But that could easily be stopped by a little incursion into the Roman camp, or camps, responsible for this state of aff—

A thought struck Asterix so suddenly that he screeched to a halt in his frenzied running, blurting it out loud. "Where's our druid, Getafix?"

His head whipped from side to side so fast he felt dizzy for an instant. He hadn't seen their druid out and about since the village's first panicked awakening, not once. And Getafix was always there. Always.

"I'm going to look for Getafix," he called over his shoulder at the villagers running to put out the latest conflagration. Then he ran.

Getafix's hut, as he'd suspected, was empty. There was a congealing mess in a small cauldron on the hearth, and the fire was completely out. Asterix bent over the embers to find them cold. That meant Getafix hadn't spent the night in his hut; the village druid was always ready to prepare potions and brews at a moment's notice, which meant he never let his fire go out, even on the hottest days. Not unless he was away on a trip. "Someone took him on his way home," Asterix muttered, suddenly aching with guilt and regret. He could have accepted Getafix's invitation, walked him home, protected him.

"Yip."

"Yes, of course, Dogmatix." Asterix picked up the little dog. "I'll buck up, I promise." He scratched behind Dogmatix's ears affectionately. "We'll find Getafix, and those Romans will rue the day they took him. And then, I'll find your master and find out just what's got into him, and—"

"The Romans are attacking!"

Asterix stilled. So that's what the Romans were up to!

He might have had time to come up with a brilliant plan – although he couldn't ever guarantee when, or what, inspiration would strike – if it had been less sudden or if he hadn't been holed up in the druid's hut when it started, or if there had been more than just that single gourd of potion in the entire village.

The emergency stock! Ignoring the shouts, stamping feet and the clang of metal around the hut, Asterix dived under the floorboards, Dogmatix hot on his heels. It went against the grain to turn his back on a battle, but the main thing was to win, not blindly follow his own wishes. If he could get his hands on the spare cauldron of potion Getafix left when he was away—

—of course, there was none. Getafix had left no cauldron of potion. He hadn't made the preparations for going on a trip because he hadn't gone away on a trip – he'd been kidnapped. There was no spare cauldron. There was nothing.

Dogmatix howled. "Shh, Dogmatix." The dog obediently fell silent. Asterix took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. There were no windows in Getafix's cellar, but clouds of dust floated in through the open doorway, accompanied by the clash of steel on steel, rather than the more benign thuds and punches (followed by a hasty retreat) that usually accompanied a Roman incursion into the village.

He took a few stealthy steps up the stairway, hoping to assess the battle. By the sound of it, there were at least four Romans to every villager, making swordsmanship and skill irrelevant. Asterix jerked backwards involuntarily at the sound of a loud thud, followed by Unhygienix yelling curses and threats. "Chain him up!" someone commanded. Metal rattled.

His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, but it clenched on the handle and stayed there. Rushing in would do no good if they were outnumbered. The only opportunity he'd have would be the element of surprise. He would stay down here and bide his time, launch some stealth attack…

"…your midget warrior?"

Asterix felt every sinew in his body pull tight and stay tensed, as he quivered with listening. Dogmatix, seeming to understand, stayed silent and still by his side.

"He's off on a mission with Obelix," Vitalstatistix's voice filtered in. He sounded breathless, and a little hoarse, but the lie was delivered with a confidence that made Asterix cheer him on.

The metallic hum of a Roman sword being drawn from an Army-issue scabbard sang in Asterix's ears, pulling his tension tighter. "Liar!" shouted the Roman – probably a centurion or higher, judging by the command in his tone and the way the hubbub died down when he had spoken. "Your fat fool of a brute is on his way to Rome thanks to our plans. The small cunning one was here till this morning. Now where is he?"

Cold gripped Asterix, so tight he couldn't breathe for a moment. On his way to Rome thanks to our plans. So it was a ruse. Time to cut ties. They'd done all this – Latraviata had been a plant – in order to get rid of Obelix…

Vitalstatistix cried out.

Asterix was bursting through the door before he knew it, heart pounding out of his chest.