Asterix's gourd of potion was empty, of course, long since drained by putting out the endless fires, and he tossed it away as he ran. Time to rely on his wits.

Because of the way Getafix's hut was situated, built right up next to the small waterfall that fed the village stream, with a hillock round the side, it was possible to gain quite a high altitude as you rounded the house. Sprinting to higher ground even as the Roman spoke, Asterix caught sight of the gathering, taking it all in as he crested the hill: villagers surrounded and chained, chief with his back to Asterix, held down by two hulking legionaries, and the Roman centurion facing the chief, holding his sword out at arm's length, its point not visible to Asterix from this angle but clearly pressed into what must have been Vitalstatistix's chin. Speeding to a sprint, Asterix drew his sword as he leaped forward, plunging it into a cleft in the rock and using it like a pole-vaulter to catapult himself upwards, straight towards the oblivious centurion.

Alerted by some whisper of sound, the Roman looked up just in time for Asterix's feet to crash solidly into his face. The villagers cheered as the centurion was knocked backwards by the momentum into the dust. Asterix somersaulted lightly out of the crash to land on his feet, facing his fallen opponent, sword out in a ready position. A moment later, he was joined by a growling, yapping Dogmatix. "You all right, O Chief?" Asterix called evenly, never taking his eyes off the centurion, who was stirring, fumbling for his sword.

"Yes," Vitalstatistix called back, not wasting words as he gingerly rubbed his neck. He was obliged to take a step backwards as the legionary nudged him with his weapon. Around and slightly behind him, the villagers stood in a tight knot, surrounded by Roman spears.

"Give it up, Gaul."

Asterix turned. The optio had his blade pressed to a little girl's neck.

The centurion groaned, rising to one elbow, as Asterix pulled himself up ramrod straight, and tossed his sword at the Romans' feet for all the world like Vercingetorix giving his arms to Caesar. "Let her go," said the Gaulish warrior imperiously, folding his arms across his chest. The optio lowered his sword and loosened his hold, letting the child fly like a little bird back to her parents' waiting embrace.

And Dogmatix, who had drooped into a mass of sad doggy-ears since the optio had threatened the child, chose this moment to attack the centurion. He flew at the man's face, and if Callus hadn't raised his arm protectively, he'd probably have had a little white dog hanging from the end of his nose. He yelled as Dogmatix sank his teeth into his forearm. The legionaries and the villagers tensed. "Get this #$%^&*! dog off me!" shouted the Roman, trying hard to shake the dog off. Finally, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand round Dogmatix's neck. The little dog's jaws gradually went slack as he lost consciousness.

Asterix and the children yelled as their beloved mascot slumped. Once Dogmatix was fully unconscious, the centurion tossed him away. The little girl who had been captive caught him, and the village children clustered round their beloved pet, rubbing the tiny chest and giving what first aid they could. Dogmatix whined softly; Asterix felt weak with relief that he was still alive. "Hold him," he called to the children. "Don't let him get away." He wouldn't let the dog get killed protecting him, that much was certain.

Meanwhile, the centurion was slipping on the ground as he tried to get up. "Did I tell you to let that child go?!" he roared at the optio. He'd fallen into a mud puddle, and it wasn't doing much for his uniform. "Are you taking orders from Gauls now?!"

The optio blanched. "Sorry, Centurion Callus, sir, I…"

"Grab that Gaul!" The centurion was visibly livid, rubbing his stomach and the back of his head where Asterix had landed on him. Dogmatix's teeth hadn't broken his skin, but there was a clear doggy-tooth-print beneath the hair on his meaty forearm. His uniform skirt was sopping, trailing mud onto his legs and sandals. "And start putting the rest of the Gauls in irons! Inspector-General Judicius will be here soon, and we need to get marching!"

"There's no need for irons, O Roman." Asterix was still standing stiffly, but his mind was running a mile a minute. Inspector-General here soon. The rest of the Gauls. Get marching. Time to cut ties. On his way to Rome thanks to our plans. "We'll come peacefully."

The optio glanced over at the Centurion Callus. His hesitation appeared to incense Callus even more. "What are you waiting for? LEGIONARIES! CHAIN THIS LOT UP!" He finally staggered to his feet, rubbing his chest where Asterix's feet had landed. Watching the legionaries hurrying to do his bidding and fixing leg-irons around the villagers, he finally nodded and turned to the optio, voice deceptively sweet. "And is there some reason you haven't restrained this Gaul yet? Perhaps you are waiting for Persephone or Juno to descend from heaven and garland him with flowers?"

"Well, no, sir, that is, sir, just waiting for the chains to—"

"Idiot! Hold him still!"

"Yessir." Asterix's dignified pose appeared to intimidate the optio, who walked up to Asterix, then behind him. Asterix felt glad, for every moment a Gaul showed dignity was a moment he filled the hearts of his fellow-villagers with the courage to go on.

The optio was still hesitating. "Sir…"

"Secret Gaulish sympathizer, are we?"

"No, I…"

"LEGIONARIES! PUT THIS MAN IN IRONS!"

At least ten legionaries pounced on Asterix, momentarily concealing him from view under a pile of Roman-uniformed soldiers. Here and there, a small hammer or chisel appeared, tools of the trade. When they emerged, Asterix was still in his dignified pose, legs shackled together by a chain like the rest of the villagers, with the additional precaution of irons on his wrists, too, attached by more chains to a metal band around his waist. It would have been child's play to get rid of them with the magic potion, but now…

Still, a Gaul must show courage. Asterix turned to Vitalstatistix, standing at the front of his captive fellow-villagers, to offer a cocky, encouraging smile.

The Centurion raised his hand. "Asterix, look out!" Vitalstatistix called out, but it was already too late. He never saw the blow coming.

It was a slap, not a punch—meant to humiliate rather than hurt. The villagers gasped and murmured as Asterix's head snapped to the side. The small warrior staggered and almost fell. Immediately, despite the indignity, Asterix righted himself. Straight-backed, arms folded, he held his head high, the centurion's slap printed on his cheek for all to see.

Vitalstatistix's skin prickled hot and cold with borrowed shame. How did Asterix find the courage to stand with his head high like this, to display the mark of his humiliation like this? From his close vantage point, Vitalstatistix could see a perfect outline of the Roman's hand, each finger-mark already puffing up into a blister. It said clearly, This man is not a warrior, but a slave.

Dogmatix growled, but the children held him fast. Trying to maintain his image as chief, Vitalstatistix suppressed his own wince. It was galling to be chief of a defeated village, but more so to see one of his own villagers – his best man – degraded. "Strike a man in irons? Shame on you!" he called out.

Callus sneered. "He is no man, but a common slave. I only meted out punishment to him as we punish our insolent slaves—or our children."

Asterix flushed scarlet, and held himself taller. Any stiffer and his spine would snap, thought Vitalstatistix. But he wasn't letting the Roman get away with that. "He is a warrior who fought you with courage and skill, while you only got up the gumption to fight back when he was put in chains. And you have the gall to cast doubt on his honor? Put your own house in order first, Roman!"

The optione looked at the ground. The centurion, though, glared at Vitalstatistix, and took a few steps towards where the women and children were shackled alongside the men. "I could leave off hitting the men entirely," he said smoothly, "if you prefer."

"Don't you dare!" Impedimenta shouted. Vitalstatistix hushed her, whereupon she swung round on him. "Did you hear what that brute threatened to do?"

"Brute, am I?" the centurion smiled. "Guess I'd better live up to it, then."

Cold terror slid through Vitalstatistix. He stepped in front of his wife, shielding the others in her turn. "Look here, Roman…"

"He's a coward, O Chief," Asterix's voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs. "Look at him. Striking women and children is about all he can manage."

Callus turned to face Asterix. "Not had enough, have you?"

Asterix stared contemptuously back. Short, shackled, degraded, the small warrior still seemed to look down on the man whose handprint he bore. "I wouldn't have expected any better of you. Romans used to be honorable combatants. But now…" He huffed and gave a little disparaging shake of the head. "Look what you've come to. Caesar would be ashamed."

Vitalstatistix felt his breathing quicken as the Roman commander turned away from the village women, fists clenching at his sides. Asterix's ruse was transparent. The village warrior had snapped out of his own sense of dishonor to goad the centurion away from the women and children, and bring the abuse down on himself. And to his everlasting shame, Vitalstatistix was grateful for it.

Centurion Callus walked up to Asterix until they were nose-to-nose. Asterix held his gaze, stern and disdainful. The centurion held his position for a long moment. Then he turned away.

Vitalstatistix barely had time to sigh silently in relief before Callus turned to the legionaries. "Any of you want payback, men?" he called. "For all the drubbings this little shrimp and his fat brute of a friend have given you all these years?"

There were murmurs and movement among the legionaries. "Doesn't seem right… little chap…" muttered one legionary.

"Besides, not sporting… hit a man in chains…" came another murmur.

"Let me at him!" A hulking fellow with piercing blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair stepped out of the phalanx. Barrel-chested and muscular, he towered over his fellow-legionaries, with thick, hairy arms and fists fully as big as Obelix's. "Time to get a bit of our own backs."

"I'm with you, Sebaceus!" A smaller legionary shouldered his way through the ranks.

"You've beaten us up so many times, Gaul, it's time for a little payback." A third legionary dropped the chains he had been fastening on Fotogenix to catch up. The big Roman, Sebaceus, stood before Asterix, rubbing his large hands together as though he were washing them. He grinned and bared his teeth.

Then he punched Asterix in the stomach—or tried to. Asterix sidestepped him so fast he was a blur, causing the Roman to fall flat on his face with his own momentum. A small cloud of dust rose up as the would-be attacker faceplanted. The Gauls guffawed, glad enough to release their tension in a belly-laugh, and even the Romans tittered. "By Juno, Sebaceus, the midget in chains got the better of you!"

Asterix gave a lopsided grin as well as his swollen face would allow. "Catch you off balance, Roman?" he quipped.

Red in the face with rage, Sebaceus climbed to his feet in the dirt. "Hold his arms!" he snapped to his friends. Still grinning, the gung-ho pair of legionaries obligingly grabbed Asterix by the elbows. He approached Asterix again, clenching his fists—and Asterix, using the two legionaries' hold as a fulcrum, swung his legs up into Sebaceus' stomach. The air whuffed out of the big man as he landed on his backside.

But this time there was no laughter. The atmosphere had changed; the air was charged with blood. Sebaceus leapt up with a growl of rage. "Someone hold his feet!"

"Coming!" Two more legionaries separated themselves from the throng. "You've the right idea, mate," one said, while the other said something about a Gaulish raid on the fortified camp of Totorum and how it was about time these barbarians got taken down a peg or two.

The two men knelt behind Asterix, diving in to grab his legs out of kicking range. Asterix, knowing he was fully restrained, struggled no more. Instead, he looked Sebaceus full in the face. "Do your worst, Roman."

"Oh, I will." Without further ado, the big man reared back and, with all the strength of the big muscles in his back and shoulders, delivered a ferocious punch to the swollen side of Asterix's face. Vitalstatistix fancied he could hear bone crack.

There was a yell: it took Vitalstatistix a moment to realize the shout had been his own. Around him, the villagers and even some of the Romans gasped. For a moment Asterix sagged in his captors' arms, head lolling; then he doggedly raised his face to his attacker, blood dribbling from his nose and cheek where Sebaceus' knuckles had split skin. "I see…" he said through bloody lips and skewed jaw, "this seems to be the best you can do."

Sebaceus positively growled. "I'll shut that mouth of yours…" He reared back, and buried his fist into Asterix's stomach.

Asterix doubled over, gasping, only the two legionaries' grip holding him upright. "Let go of him!" his tormentor commanded. Asterix dropped at once. Immediately, the legionaries who had been holding his arms and legs set to kicking him, giving him no opportunity to get his breath back. The five of them belaboured his torso, ribs, back, arms, legs, anywhere they could reach.

Unable to escape or protect himself from the blows, Asterix writhed on the dusty ground, his shackled hands clutching convulsively at his tortured stomach muscles. "That's it, Sudoriferus," nodded Sebaceus. "Show that overreaching Gaul his place. In the dirt."

Some of the villagers protested, but Vitalstatistix and a few of the more experienced older ones silenced them – they didn't want to anger the Romans and make the beating go on longer. But as the kicking continued, Asterix turned blue, gasping soundlessly for air. "Stop it!" Vitalstatistix cried. "You'll kill him!"

"Kill him?" The centurion stepped forward. "We can't have that. Stand down, men."

"Just when it was getting interesting!" one of them said, but with some protests, the legionaries stepped back obediently. Asterix lay curled protectively into himself, clawed hands drawn up to his middle, shuddering convulsively as he alternated between gasping for air and choking back his moans.

"Can't kill him, can we?" said the centurion. Vitalstatistix would have liked to believe Callus had good intentions, but the half-smirk on the Roman's face showed otherwise. He moved in to Asterix with slow, measured strides. "At least, not if he begs for his life."

"He can't talk!" yelled Geriatrix. "Have some sense, Roman!"

The centurion barely glanced at the villagers. "Would any of you care to beg for his life?"

Vitalstatistix stepped forward. A Gaul's pride and dignity came first, before everything – except a fellow-Gaul's life.

"I humbly entreat you to spare him, Roman," Vitalstatistix said, easily. He'd seen eviscerated men on Vercingetorix's battlefield begging their leader to kill them and end the pain. This? This was nothing.

Callus' eyes narrowed. "I don't think you sound penitent enough." He drew nearer to Asterix. "Get down on your knees and beg me to spare him."

"O Chief... don't lower yourself." Asterix's voice was choked, but the words were clear, borne on the wisp of breeze that rustled the grass, and hardly louder. "He can't kill… any of us… till we get to Rome." Asterix reached out a hand to push himself up; he was unsuccessful, slumping with a soft groan. "Caesar needs his prize… complete."

Vitalstatistix stared. For a split-second, there was nothing but the wind rustling in the grass. Was Asterix making up a fiction? Telling a tall tale to spare him indignity? He wouldn't put it past the self-sacrificing warrior. But one look at the Roman centurion convinced him: the man was livid. Asterix had betrayed the constraints he was working under. The centurion had lost his bargaining edge.

Until he laid an ominous foot on Asterix's kneecap.

"No!" cried Vitalstatistix. The centurion was a big man, his stiff leather sandal completely covering the small Gaul's leg. Asterix grunted, but otherwise made no sound. Smiling smugly, Callus increased the pressure. The villagers murmured as Asterix gritted his teeth and writhed, red in the face with suppressing his pain. "What do you want, Roman? I'll do it!"

Callus was steadily shifting more and more of his weight to the foot that covered Asterix's leg. Asterix writhed, choking back his gasps as his own involuntary movements jarred his cracked and broken ribs. The centurion side-eyed Vitalstatistix, smiling. "Oh, just beg me on bended knee for mercy."

"No, don't!" Asterix choked out.

"Still giving orders, Gaul, I see." Callus lifted his foot, then stamped on Asterix's knee. Asterix let out a choked scream as the joint snapped with an audible crack.

Through the villagers' cries and shouts behind him, Vitalstatistix dropped to his knees. He opened his mouth and let words spill out, the crack of bone still ringing in his ears. "Roman. I—we—we regret any—everything. Stop this, I beg of you, stop it, that's enough. We'll do whatever you want." Asterix was shuddering convulsively; his face was a rictus of agony, head lashing from side to side in the dust. "Please, I beg of you. Don't hurt him anymore. Please." What was it the centurion had wanted him to say? "Show mercy."

Callus looked at him for a long time. Vitalstatistix hurriedly lowered his gaze, as befitted a vanquished enemy. Asterix's choked breathing goaded him on. "We repent," he babbled. "We regret…" he searched for a phrase, "…defying the might of Rome." Words were words, they meant nothing, you learned that in battle when a man's guts spilled out. The sickening crack of Asterix's kneecap shattering would haunt Vitalstatistix's dreams. "Please. Don't hurt him anymore."

Finally, the Roman nodded. "Get up, Gaul."

Vitalstatistix scrambled to his feet, only to find that it was Asterix the centurion meant. At the taunt, Asterix made a valiant effort to rise. It was painful to watch as he twitched in the dirt, body unable to obey his commands. His hands were still clenched tightly over his ribs, the injury beneath his trouser-leg already swelling to obscene proportions; his teeth were bared and eyes squeezed shut to keep from crying out. Drying blood still dribbled sluggishly from his battered face. The centurion took a long, satisfied look at Asterix, then turned to Vitalstatistix. "You too, chieftain. Get your Gauls behind you and get moving." Without further ado, he turned away. "Form a phalanx with the prisoners in the center! We'll start marching and meet the Inspector-General halfway. That will make a good impression."

Clouds of dust rose up in the air, thick with the sound of vibrating metal as the rank-and-file of legionaries bustled about, taking up formation around the Gauls. But the Gauls only had eyes for Asterix. In addition to their shackles, the villagers were chained together in groups of four or five. It should have made moving difficult, but when Vitalstatistix broke away from the larger knot of people to go to their injured comrade, he felt the others come with him easily. He was chained in a five-Gaul unit comprising himself, Impedimenta, Fulliautomatix, Geriatrix and Cacofonix the bard. Each of them had around three feet of play in the chains that bound them one to the other, making it easier, thank Toutatis, to move. "Fulliautomatix, can you carry him?" asked Vitalstatistix. His voice sounded strangely soft to his own ears.

The Romans were closing in. There was no time. "Come on, Gauls, come on, hurry up!"

"Of course." Fulliautomatix's voice had the same softness to it. He knelt, the other Gauls bending to allow his chains maximum play. The blacksmith spread his leather apron across his big forearms like a hammock, and placed the makeshift stretcher next to Asterix. "Slide him in," he commanded, but it came out a sigh.

Many hands reached out to help. At the sensation of hands slipping gently beneath him and handling him with care, Asterix's eyelids fluttered. His eyes were swollen shut, though, and he was too weak to force them open. "Ob…e…" he slurred. "'at y…?"

"No, Asterix," Vitalstatistix choked. "It's us."

"When I see Obelix," muttered Fulliautomatix darkly, "I swear to all the gods I'm going to thump him."

"It's all right, Asterix," said Vitalstatistix. "We're here. We're with you. Just let us do all the work."

"You should… go on ahead, O Chief." Asterix's voice was a whisper. "I'll… catch up."

"Last I heard, I was the chief," Vitalstatistix said, a little tartly. "Don't give orders. Just follow them. Let us carry you. Is that clear?"

At the stern words, Asterix closed his eyes and turned his head away. "I'm sorry," Asterix muttered. "…dishonored you."

"What!" Cacofonix burst out, almost in unison with Fulliautomatix. But Vitalstatistix barely heard them. Asterix's words didn't make sense—not unless you noticed, as he turned his head, beneath the bruises, the blistering handprint on his cheek and neck. The mark of a slave. Beg for mercy. Asterix was feeling guilty that he, Vitalstatistix, in his capacity as village chief, had been made to abase himself – or at least that was how Asterix saw it.

"Hurry up, Gauls! Or we'll make you move!"

"Asterix." Vitalstatistix brushed a hand over Asterix's hair. Where was the warrior's helmet? Too late to go looking for it now. "This wasn't your doing." He took Asterix's hand. "Empty words are empty words, remember that."

"Yes… O Chief."

"Remember something else, Asterix." Vitalstatistix forced a chuckle. "These Romans are crazy."

"You said it…" Asterix went slack, slumping into the makeshift cradle. By now, Asterix was safely settled in the leather apron. The chief nodded, and Fulliautomatix stood, keeping Asterix's broken leg as straight as possible, supporting him against his aproned chest.

Asterix cried out. The chief flinched, thinking it was a cry of pain. "Easy, Fulliautomatix!"

But then Asterix motioned him closer. "No… O Chief…" he gasped. "Please…"

"Yes?" Vitalstatistix, Fulliautomatix and other of the village men leaned in.

"Leave Dogm—matix… here," Asterix panted. "He can… find us by scent. In case Getafix or," his swallow was not due to the pain in his body, "or Obelix c—come back."

Always the strategist, Vitalstatistix thought sadly. It was a good idea. Outwardly, he nodded, and took Asterix's hand, squeezing it gently. "Consider it done."

"I'll tell the children to put him down," someone volunteered.

They began to move, the rest of the villagers circling Fulliautomatix protectively. "Be careful with him," Cacofonix put in.

Instead of making any kind of retort, Fulliautomatix nodded gravely. "I will."