Serious about Siroc
Disclamer:
All hail Dumas and his descendants.
PAX young blades and the
Disney version of 3 musketeers gave inspiration to this tale.
There is no money in it for me, just enjoyment – Something I hope to share.
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-(Chapter one –Slave Reflections)-
Ramón prattled amiably as they rode along the Seine. The Q. de la Grève was beautiful this time of year. And the young poet was still energized from his afternoon in the salon at the Hotel de Ville. "Ah, if only i mi familia /i could see how popular I am they would regret loosing me I am sure." He sighed lacing his gloved fingers behind his head and stretching, while guiding his horse only with his knees. "How about you my friend…I'm sure you didn't expect to become a musketeer… What would your family say?"
Siroc, never spoke of his past…He didn't even want to think about it. Eventually he hoped his companions would figure this out and stop trying to press him. They meant well, he knew, but in the great scheme of things it mattered little. The closest he'd ever come to explaining himself was to admit, "It's complicated." How could he tell anyone that for him life before the age of fifteen was a forgotten dream, and life after that an indelible nightmare? He didn't even know his true name. Images poured unbidden into his mind. Clouds covered the sun and he shivered at the sudden chill…
i The boy fought …he knelt on cold stone, immobile. Hands bound tightly behind his back, he could not struggle. In fact, he could barely move. Still he fought with the only weapon left to him—his mind. The enemy was cunning and subtle, that much he knew. Else how was it that the boy had been taken so swiftly, spirited away from those who watched over him? Those whose duty it was to…What? Keep him where? The boy fought valiantly for answers, but the weapons of the enemy were many, and he was loosing ground at an alarming rate. Fatigue… hunger…darkness … fear -- the boy swayed on his knees pulling the chain collar taunt about his neck.
"No rest for you my pet – not yet." The words chilled him, and inwardly he cringed – but only for a moment. The flame of his spirit still burned bright. 'I will not succumb to the terror of this place!' The boy told himself, teeth gritted against the wooden bit in his mouth. "I will NOT show weakness." Determination flared in his breast.
But how long could his resolve last? He'd been cut, beaten, doused with icy water, deprived of food and rest, accosted by sound, light and finally darkness. What new torment awaited him? The sharp pain in the side of his neck was just the beginning. Fire coursed through his veins and pain screamed behind his eyes as the reigns of his mind were yanked violently from his grasp. His world eclipsed in an unrelenting torrent of red. /i
I mean really Siroc, you're a scholar…only a noble could dream of an education like yours…
"An education like mine," Siroc echoed in a thoughtful whisper.
Ramón continued uninterrupted, "Surely your family thought you'd be teaching at the university or enmeshed in politics…I'd wager they never imagined you'd make a living with a blade.
i "Master please," the boy's voice croaked in a horse whisper. He barely recalled the last time the bit had been removed from his aching jaw – being able to speak freely felt…unnatural somehow.
"You think yourself ready?" the master asked, stalking, beast-like about the small study.
"Test me, I pray you, my lord." The defiance was gone now and there was an earnestness to the boy's voice that hadn't been there…before his "training".
The Master stopped pacing and regarded the sandy-haired boy chained at his desk. How many tomes had this supple-minded pet ingested so far? Fifteen…sixteen? Eighteen. The Master smiled.
"What does Libavious say of minerals?"
"They can be identified by the shape of the crystals produced when a solution is evaporated." the boy answered immediately. "His work illustrates how to identify and prepare hydrochloric acid, tin tetrachloride, ammonium sulfate, sulfuric acid and aqua regia.
"What says the work of Nicholas of Cusa?" the master demanded
"Space is infinite; there is no up or down. The earth is held on its axis about the sun and stars are other suns vastly far away.
"Petrus de Maricourt?"
"Also called Peregrinus." The youth smiled "Magnetism: a loadstone is attracted to iron without physical contact. A magnet in the form of a needle suspended on a pivot will align itself north and south and can be used in navigation."
"Paracelsus"
"Aulus Cornelius," the boy began, but the lash falling across his back cut him off.
"Fool, I did not say Celcius I said PARA-Celcius!" the Master roared.
"Philippus Aureolus, Swiss physician and alchemist" The boy whimpered. It was rare that he answered incorrectly, and the punishment left him torn and bleeding. But the test continued nonetheless.
Apain, Fernell…Copernicus, Cano, Paciol, Galen, Zosimus, Ptolemy…the list seemed endless stretching back to the earliest written records. There was so much to grasp, and even the slightest hesitation on his part brought the Master's rod down on his battered back. How would he ever move beyond simple recitation? His abused mind yearned to grasp the ramification of the knowledge he amassed, to find practical applications for it. But how could he, when he hadn't the strength to dream? 'Someday,' he sighed. His mind was the only resource he had; he could not fail. /i
"I am a simple man Siroc… I carve my lot in life with wit, and word, and failing that few will find my blade unwilling. But you were meant for grander things, my friend. After all—" Ramón sent him a dazzling smile. "—knowledge is power. And in that I'm sure you've got more than most."
"Not always, my friend…not always." Siroc breathed heavily, his thoughts slipping like broken gears, back to the painful lessons of his past.
i The boy knelt in the corner of his cell and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His intelligent eyes flashed wordless, intense green fire. "Such hate, my pet. Why do you think that is?" Mazarin chuckled toying with the sleeve of his red robe.
"You made me what I am. Why do YOU think that is." the youth retorted. A sharp jerk on his leash brought him to his knees. He gagged painfully.
"They say knowledge is power. Knowledge is my gift to you. Power is mine alone – do not delude yourself otherwise. The Master pressed his slippered foot on the boy's chain and pulled, drawing him from the relative safety of the corner. "Even if you are not within my sight, you can not escape my reach, for I control powers that are above the laws of science. And those I will NOT share. You are no Aramis; and I am no Richelieu. Do not think yourself capable of raising a hand against me? You are in my Power. You WILL remember your place, my pet, always."/i
"Did you say something, Siroc?" Ramón asked a bit concerned at his friend's wan expression. "Is something wrong?"
"No, I was just thinking." The inventor sighed.
"You think too much sometimes. If you stay locked away in your mind, you can't really enjoy this glorious day. And it is glorious. The sun — it caresses you. The wind — it plays in your hair. The trees…can you hear their whispered secrets? What mysteries do you need but these?" The poet was beside himself with contentment.
Siroc sent him a wistful smile.
Mysteries? Secrets? Locked away in his mind – if only Ramón knew how right he was. But he didn't. No one was ever beyond the Cardinal's power. Even escape did not necessarily mean freedom. Unless. What had his Master said?
i"You are no Aramis; and I am no Richelieu, I will not share my power."/i Mazarin inherited his power from Richelieu. Richelieu is no longer Mazarin will not share his power…but perhaps there is another source strong enough to oppose the master. What about this Aramis? Perhaps he holds the key… But where to find him?
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On that note, on to Chapter II…Where Siroc asks, "D'Artagnan Who?"
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Is it who you are or what you do that's important? Siroc must lay aside his thoughts and lend his attention to Ramón. As the two ride, they share their perceptions of a newcomer to the ranks… a cadet called d'Artagnan.
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