Meus Profiteor*

Book One: Origins

Part One: Pax Romana

Chapter One: The Master and the Student

He could never be one of us; he could never want to be. He sat alone, surrounded by followers, who, with inquisitive eyes, waited on baited breath for his imparted wisdom. He always seemed to be in deep, silent, brooding contemplation over any topic, including afternoon tea.

He never raised his voice. He never objected. He rarely spoke out of turn, but then that was because no one else ever spoke in his presence. When he lectured, he was a general, and we were his willing fodder. He commanded respect. He commanded awe. He was a monolith. He was a Titan.

Peering at him from behind poorly lit flambeaux, we all whispered his sayings, his teachings, to one other in the ancient language that we had been taught since infancy. We sat in silence, huddled around him: some sitting on pillows, others cross-legged on the cold ground, a scattered few perched on the cracked and nitre-encrusted rocks. The most enamoured of us stood near him, hanging on to his every word in admiration, while the rest half-listened from the shadows. All we hoped for was that one day we too might take our places among the great ranks of the Circle of Thorns and serve him as humble and fledgling Thorn Casters. He was our master, our father -- the only father we ever knew.

What we knew about our father was very little. He was an ancient sorcerer of immense power. His age we could only guess at. We knew that he was an advisor to King Leonidas (a direct descendant of Hercules himself) in the year 480 B.C.E. Our master was there when Leonidas halted the armies of Xerxes at the Battle of Thermopylae in the Season of the Sun. It was even rumoured that our great master was there when the Titans themselves ruled the Earth.

My origins, or rather my beginnings, were much more humble and far less dated. I was not witness to living legends or ancient myths. I did, however, come to adolescence during the Age of Augustus, Pax Romana. It was a time when the Empire was immense and powerful. Augustus, born Gaius Octavius Thurinus, was the first Emperor of Rome. He ruled the land with vision and guidance while staving off the border nations and their hordes.

I was no patrician, however, no soldier. I was only a boy who stole glances outside my master's walled temple. I rarely ventured outside while citizens, slaves, and traders went about their unimpressive lives. You see, I was an individual of books. I placed my faith in my master and in his teachings and longed for more knowledge. I knew that if I was patient enough, he would eventually teach me the great magiks -- terrifying powers. I had once witness him perform them a Germanic raiding party -- or at least that is what I was led to believe -- that had infiltrated the temple to steal The Black Tome, an article of power that our mages guarded zealously.

I remember that day clearly. I was no older than seven and was fetching water from the well outside the temple. I heard a muffled cry and then a loud moaning and gurgling sound coming from the other side of the enclosure. As soon as it began, however, it had stopped. Suddenly, a mad, frenzied demon launched over the top of the wall with amazing speed. I dropped the wooden bucket of water and found myself unable to move, frozen with fear. I felt a wetness run down my leg, thinking that I was surely about to die.

The horned devil approached me, its smoky breath materialising from beneath his nostrils. It raised a great axe high above its head, blocking out the sun, determined to blot out my life as it did the light. Eyes shut tight, I awaited my fate. Instead of the swift falling of its axe upon my head, I heard a guttural cry burst forth from its cracked, thin black lips. I looked up and saw its ragged body burst into flames, erupting blood from its chest and mouth like a fountain. Its blood was boiling; its skin was melting. It was as awful retch-inducing sight.

In the same instant, I felt my body being pulled back through the air and flung onto the ground. Wincing at the taste of both dirt and blood in my mouth, I kept my face down, daring not to look up at what had so easily flayed and incinerated a demon.

“Rise, my son,” my master spoke quietly, shaking me from my fear. “They are gone. There is no need to be afraid any more.”

I looked up to see his sage-like face searching my eyes with his own. I met a calmness there, but I also noticed his trademark contemplation. Outwardly he appeared collected and unaffected, but inwardly I sensed worry. Not that my master had anything to worry about or fear for himself. I believed that he was afraid for me. Perhaps it had something to do with the demon that had attacked me. I was aware that the Circle had dark and mystical creatures in its service. Was this one of them? Why did the behemoth try to kill me? I was a follower. It did not make any sense.

Shaking the disturbing cobwebs of my meditations, I shook my head and gave my master a strained smile of gratitude as he extended his hand to me, helping me to my feet.

“Thank you, master,” I said while shaking uncontrollably.

I wiped the blood off of my face with my bare arm, and spit the dirt out of my mouth. I resisted the urge to cry as I looked back up at my master, who was now leaning over me, raising an eyebrow in jest with that same kind smile still stretched across his face.

“Go wash up, son,” he ordered softly. With an afterthought, he added, “Do not look at the demon's body. Just wash up, and go inside. I will come visit you later tonight.”

“Yes, master,” I replied, obediently, then ran as fast as I could to the well; however, I could not help myself from looking down at the now black and ashen body suited in strange armour.

Abruptly looking away, I dismissed the image of the horrible thing and quickly ran over to the well to wash the blood from my face and hair. After thoroughly rubbing my tender skin raw and red, I turned heel and headed towards the temple, forgetting to complete my original task of bringing in water.

As I stumbled, out of breath, up the temple stairs, I tripped onto the stone floor. One of the older students, bloodied from battle himself, reached out and caught me by the arm, helping me back up to my feet.

He was tired and dirty, but I was pale and ashen, blood still wet and sticky, seeping through my worn garments. Out of the two of us, I, as the younger, looked the worse for the wear.

The older boy, still trying to catch his own breath, glanced past me, searching, then looked down at me with genuine concern in his eyes. He placed both his hands on my shoulders and looked me squarely in the eyes. He looked as though he had something important to say. I waited patiently for his query.

“Tarixus, what happened? Where is Archmage Akarist?”

Terms:

Meus Profiteor is Latin for “My Confession” (or confession of my sins)

Pax Romana is Latin for Roman Peace, the period in which Caesar Augustus ruled. It was a time of civil peace that lasted over two hundred years.