The First Book of the Pure by Don Dewey Page A

you’re young. I don’t know how long you would stay with
me, nor exactly why you desire to study. But my first observations
are these: You speak with a strange accent, and your words are hard
to understand. I’m fairly sure no group of people still use that
variation of our tongue. Secondly, you’re not a man of letters,
that is, you aren’t a man of academia, but a man of action, a
soldier perhaps. Thirdly, you perhaps are seeking how to best fit
in this place, with these people.” He waved his arm to indicate
those about them. “Am I at all accurate, young student?”
    “Sir, you are accurate in all. I see that
I’ve come to the right man for what I desire. I need to speak as
they speak.” He also motioned to indicate those around them. “I
need to gain much in the way of writing, numbers, and logic. I
think you’re the man to teach me.” Max allowed himself a rare
smile, and Mu’dar responded in kind. Maximus opened his purse to
show the glow of golden coins and the flash of precious gems and
went on. “I’ll gladly pay for the teaching.”
    “I see. But I expect you will find that we
have little need for such things. Some, of course, but not much.
Very well, let us begin.”
    The days became months, and the months
stretched into years. Max had a keen mind, great instincts and an
unusually accurate intuition. He learned at a greater rate than any
student Mu’dar had ever taught.
    Over time they developed a deep and relaxed
camaraderie, and thoroughly enjoyed one another’s company. They
became more associates than teacher and pupil, and Max was no
longer taken for a stranger or foreigner. For all his posturing
about being old, Mu’dar was still a vigorous man.
     
    ***
     
    A few months after their relationship began,
the two were walking to the next town, and planned on being there
before evening. They rarely took any kind of transportation,
because Mu’dar had a saying, which he expressed far too often for
Maximus’ liking. “The going is far more important than the
arriving, and teaches one as the journey unfolds.” Max had learned
more patience with him, and they walked along the road, still paved
these many years since Maximus had watched Roman work gangs perform
that task. The thieves jumped out from behind the rocks at the side
of the road, and immediately demanded their possessions. “Give them
what they want, Maximus.” Mu’dar spoke quietly and urgently.
“Perhaps we shall live.”
    “Sorry, master.” Max turned from Mu’dar to
the bandit leader. “You’ll take nothing from this good man, and you cannot take anything from me. Leave while you’re still
breathing.”
    That brought peals of laughter from the
bandits, eight in all. Laughing so hard he could barely speak, the
leader began to tell Maximus why it was so funny. But before he
could get it out, he found a dagger hilt protruding from his chest.
He stared at it as if in amazement, and then sank to his knees.
“Any more volunteers?” Maximus asked with a fey smile.
    One of the geniuses before him voiced his
lack of understanding. “Volunteers?”
    “Let me rephrase it: does anyone else wish to
die today, or will you leave us in peace?”
    As brutes were wont to be, they were
infuriated by the attack on their leader, even though they were the
initial aggressors. The others rushed Maximus, expecting to put him
down from sheer weight of numbers. Their weapons were at all
angles, and Maximus abruptly found himself, once again,
Sub-Commander Maximus, an elite killer for the Empire, his sword in
hand, eagerly meeting the pitifully undisciplined charge of these
brigands. He knew from vast experience that of these men, two would
have to die quickly, leaving probably three to approach him more
slowly, while most likely two would try to run off at some point
after their comrades started dying.
    He rendered the front two weapons, spears,
into mere sticks as he swept their top two feet of length off with
one sweep of his blade. On