He was startled awake by a dog barking outside the window and...just on the edge of his perception, the buzz of another Immortal. It was very weak. A student of the man he'd killed? He thought not, there were no memories of a student. This unknown Immortal didn't seem to be a threat, just an annoyance for the moment. They were bound to have sensed him and decided not to come any closer for the time being. He ought to be more wary, you didn't live as long as he had by taking stupid risks.

Sunlight streamed across the room and he realised it was already past noon. A slight coolness prickled against his skin as he threw back the coverings; skin that smellt of honey and flowers, really clean for the first time since winter had set in.

'How had he been so stupid as to let a mere woman trap him ...He could have lost his head for a lapse like that' he mentally chastised himself while searching for his clothes and sword. Uncharacteristically charitable he decided to blame the previous nights poor judgement on being unused to that particular type of drink rather than deliberate malice on the part of his hostess.

The effects of the potion abated quickly leaving him alert and full of the sparkling strength of the recent Quickening. He stretched like a cat in the warm air.

Before he had time to dress fully the door hanging was drawn back by an old man. The left side of his face ravaged by scar tissue; A deep pit where his eye should have been. He limped into the room followed by a small boy with a bowl of water and a razor.

For a moment, faced by an obvious old soldier, Methos felt extremely vulnerable. Naked to the waist he scrabbled for his sword.

"Calm down son" the man spoke in reasonable, if heavily accented, Greek. "I'm not a threat to you. The priestess has sent me to give you a shave and a haircut in preparation for the festival."

More relaxed now Methos noticed the man wore a manacle around his ankle, a slave, though a trusted one since his ankles were not chained together. He sat on the edge of the pallet feeling faintly embarrassed.

The man gestured for him to sit on a low stool brought by a second boy.

"Yani" he explained suddenly "I'm Yani..from Abdera in Thrace"

"You're a long way from home"

Spoils of war, son. I was a foot soldier in the Valley Wars. Got captured right at the end, in that last summer. Didn't have a family to ransom me so I was sold to a merchant working the Marmara coast."

"Are you still with him?" Methos asked. He'd been working as a guard on a ship taking Lapis Lazuli and other gems from Antioch to Byzantium when it had been wrecked in one of the spring storms common in the Mediterranean. Getting back to Byzantium by ship would be a bonus. He'd worked as a mercenary long enough to have plenty of services to offer to any merchant.

"No" Yani looked sad "He was a good master... died last spring of the fever while we were trading here and so I was given to the temple. Of course you're too young to remember the Valley Wars...most glorious campaign of a generation." He smiled for a moment lost in memories of heroic combat.

Methos remembered only too well. The constant slog over marshlands, the smell of blood and the cries of the dying. Four years he'd given to those campaigns and for what? The deaths of hundreds of men, women and children and the change of ownership of two valleys. But the old soldier was right, it had been glorious and the plunder had set him up with a whole new life.

Yani ran a bone comb through Methos' straggly hair, removing tangles and the inevitable lice. Then using sharp copper shears cut his hair short, above his ears, using the razor to trim the back. Methos knew this short, shepherd boy, cut would take years off his apparent age.

"Not been in a war yet then? Not a scar on you" Yani seemed incredulous as he studied the Immortal's bare back.

"I've just been lucky, gods be praised" This was something Methos always found difficulty with. Especially on long campaigns. It was hard to explain how you had no wounds or scars, particularly when others saw you 'hurt'.

"More than lucky. You really must be favoured by the goddess. I didn't believe what Vira said she saw, you know the lights and all, but this proves it" He sucked his teeth in awe.

Yani held a warm wet cloth against the Immortal's face then rubbed oil into the still damp stubble. The razor was sharp, well honed bronze and in the skilled hands of its owner left Methos' face smooth and clean. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Who is Vira? and why does she think I'm favoured?"

"She's the youngest of our sisterhood here, a neophyte. She saw the goddess bless your fight, give you the strength to defeat your opponent and then reward you with a visitation. She says you were sent to the village on purpose, to help with the ritual. All the men are away fighting for the prince so they feared there'd be no one for the ceremony to welcome in the spring."

"What about you?" Methos questioned further.

"Slaves and boys aren't permitted. We aren't even supposed to know what goes on." He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"But you do? What sort of ceremony is it? And why should the men being away cause a problem?"

"The festival to welcome the spring. There's a lot of drumming, chanting, that sort of thing. Then they go off to 'bless the fields' " He winked at an obvious euphemism. "They need a man for that."

"Ah..I see" This could be a very interesting evening the Immortal thought "Which goddess do you worship here?" He thought it might help if he knew something of the rites in advance.

"Why Cybele of course...this is Phrygia after all" The man almost sounded offended that he didn't know.

Methos struggled to remember anything about this local goddess. There were so many these days, it was difficult to keep track. Every village, every region had its own deities.

The old man continued. "At the spring she welcomes the rebirth of her beloved Attis."

Attis, Attis...the name was familiar but Methos couldn't bring the legend to mind. Spring festival... he thought..lots of lamb, dancing, wine and flowers..that was traditional in most rural communties..and maybe a little outdoor coupling to encourage the rebirth of the land. No complex formal rituals for these simple peasant folk. He remembered some of the early Osirian rites of sowing and how they seemed to last almost till harvest. This wouldn't be like that. Rural communities had an earthy realism he appreciated.