and talks no more. There’s a strange far away look on his face as we move cautiously through the woods.

We reach the village- or at least the edge of the cleared area in the woods in which it sits- as the sun is setting. Its dying rays bathe the settlement and the brown muddy river beyond it in a deceptively peaceful glow. At a superficial glance it doesn’t look as if there’s anything out of the ordinary. A closer inspection discloses a reinforced, Roman-style watch platform over the gate. There are at least two Roman soldiers in it; the sun catches their armour. A Brigantian horseman stands by the ferryman’s boat and the fording point. The fields round the village already have a scruffy and unkempt look; horses have trampled through the growing crops and nobody has been weeding for a bit. Things were obviously going wrong even before the women were expelled. It’s also very quiet apart from the whinnying of horses- none of the normal noise of a normal peaceful village. The surrounding palisade largely blocks a clear view of the village, though two plumes of smoke rise above it.

The main path into the village lies to our right. Two more Roman horsemen watch over the point where it emerges from the woods. As we dismount the gate of the village swings open and another Roman emerges.

“I’ll listen” I say and move as stealthily as I can though the trees and bushes.

The man who has emerged from the village is, it seems, the centurion in charge- and he is not a happy man at all.

“No signs of the bridging party yet?” he bellows.

“No, Cents. Give them a chance; they’re flat feet after all and with all their kit they can’t possibly be here for another day and half at best.”

“Just for once I’ll be glad to see a few honest to Mars Roman flat feet around. This place gives me the shudders. Sooner there are more of us than them here the better I’ll like it- and sooner I’m answering to a proper officer, not a jumped up political the better I’ll like it too. ‘You’ll secure the bridging point, Aulus’ the Old Man says. ‘I have implicit trust in your judgement’ he says. ‘You’ll have the assistance of Friendlies’ he says- doesn’t tell me that they’ll be a crowd of freaky Brigs commanded by something that never shows its face and a slaver gang. ‘Of course you’re nominally commanded by Lucius Sergius Pilatus’ he says- and I choke a bit; that prat. At least he’s cut his hair and looks like a Roman at the moment. ‘And you’ll have a bonus, you and your lads’- never said it would be from slave trading. Or that by the time he and the politicals and everyone else at HQ has had his cut we’ll be lucky if it stretches to a jar of the South Gaulish horse piss that passes for wine in the booths at the moment. Or that our esteemed Political Officer’s Brig mates would empty a whole village for us to camp in- I think even he was a bit surprised at that one.”

“Any idea what’s going on, Cents? I mean with the Politicals and the Brigs and all that.

“Search me. ‘Local politics’ is all Lukey-boy is saying. Spends most of his time in that hut with the Hooded thing, though. That really is freaky.”

“You any idea if it’s a man or a woman, Cents? The lads are running a book on it. Left Handed Gnaeus even has money on it being neither- something like a Cybele priest back home. Not sure he mightn’t have a point.”

“Sorry lads, your guess is as good as mine. I’d go for woman from how it rides but I’m not sure. Anyway, about time you lads came in. Doesn’t look like there’s anybody coming this evening. The Brigs are jumpy as cats, though. I think they’re hunting someone and can’t find them and won’t be happy until they do.”

With that they ride back to the village.

I return to my colleagues and tell them what I’ve heard. I add “I wonder if this may just possibly be a set up. Expelling the people from the village…. They- the Hooded One and the renegades- must know we’d have to come this way some time. They know we couldn’t just let what they’ve done here pass. Maybe they’re luring us in”

“So?” Brann replies. “We can’t just let it pass- they’re right on that.”

“So we need to be a little subtle. We can’t just gallop up to the village gates and try to storm the place- not three of us against nearly three score. We need to even the numbers up a bit.”

“Release the captives before attacking?” Flid says. “Yes.” I reply. “And to do that we really need to know the layout of the village and where everyone is.” I look at Flidhais. She smiles.

“You do realise that this was part of what got me into trouble with the druids?”

I nod. “Fine” she says. “We need to wait for night, though”

We spend a tense evening waiting for the light to fade away completely. The village is remarkably quiet- there isn’t even the sound of songs and banter that you’d usually hear from Roman soldiers in a camp. They’re taking this seriously.

The moon rises slowly. The river shimmers beyond the village. It’s a clear night. The wood is full of the furtive scurryings and rustlings of the animals and birds of the night.

Flid stands up. “See you both soon.” She says. There’s a strange shudder in the air and an owl flies off towards the village, its great wings beating.

Brann and I watch its departure. “However often she does it, I’m always worried she won’t be able to switch back.” Brann says.

Then in an oddly flat voice he says. “I saw the Washer again last night. The Washer by the Ford. Interesting that it should be at a real ford.”

“Again?” I ask. He hadn’t mentioned this before, though admittedly seeing your death is hardly a subject of light conversation even for the bravest of men.

“I’ve been seeing the Washer in my dreams since we left the cave. The vision’s been getting stronger and clearer every time. I don’t think there’s long to go.”

I say nothing; what is there to say? It explains Brann’s references to death and why he’s been so subdued in the past few days. He’s seen his fate and it’s pressing on him. I don’t suppose he’s told Flid. It won’t change our plans- if Fate is waiting it will pounce whatever we do so we might as well do what we have to. I haven’t seen the Washer. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to end up a prisoner in Roman chains; better be dead than that.

We wait in the darkness a bit longer. An owl hoots loudly a couple of times. Horses whinny nervously. The bird flies steadily back towards the woods. It circles over us. The air shudders and Flid is back.

“Right.” She says. “The captives are split up over four huts to the left of the village as you enter. Each hut has a slaver in charge; the other slavers are in a fifth hut on that side. The Romans have horse lines in the middle of the village; the renegades have mostly folded their beasts with the horses taken from their captives but there are a few hitched outside huts. The Romans have their cooking pots in the middle of the huts they’re occupying, on the right as you enter. There are a couple of them up the tower over the gate. The renegades are spread out in twos and threes across the rest of the village. Except that the Roman commander seems to be in the same hut as the Hooded One. The headman’s hut, beside the Roman horse lines. And the weapons taken off the captives and all their valuables are in a small hut on the edge of the slavers’ zone. They’d guarded, one Roman sentry outside, one inside. I gave him a start by hooting down the smoke hole. One good thing is that the Roman horses obscure the view of the slaver area. And there are several open camp fires- if we deed to use Brigha’s fires as an ally.”

“Can’t say I like the idea of burning the village down to liberate it.” Brann says.

“We may not have much choice, love.” Flid replies. “Better to save the men than the huts. You can always rebuild huts.”

I nod agreement.

We settle down to discuss our plans.