Fate | Baldwin IV

confessions

"...Pone seram, cohibe,' sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" Archbishop William's voice resonated through the quiet, empty scriptorium of the Holy Sepulchre, the air thick with the faint scent of incense lingering from earlier prayers and the old parchments scattered around.

The room we occupied was small but grand in its own right, tucked away within the church. The walls were lined with towering shelves, each brimming with tomes and scrolls, some of their spines worn and their pages yellowed with age. A small wooden table sat at the corner, separate from the rest of the tables neatly arranged in rows, its surface polished smooth by years of use, and atop it lay the book from which Archbishop William had read—a leather-bound volume of Satires of Juvenal, its edges gilded in gold leaf. He lifted his head from the old book and looked up at me, his piercing gaze full of expectation. "Do you understand the meaning of it?"

I hesitated, tracing the edge of the table with my fingertip. "Throw the bolt and lock her in,' but who will guard the guards themselves?" I mumbled finally, lifting my eyes to meet his.

"No," he replied, which took me by surprise—I was certain of my translation, then raised a brow. "Do you understand the meaning of it?" he asked again, emphasizing the words.

I took a moment to think, my brows furrowed. "Those who hold authority are often the ones most in need of oversight...yet they are the least likely to be questioned..."

Archbishop William's lips curved into a small smile, his expression contemplative. "That could be right, I suppose," he said, his tone measured. "But there's more to it." He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly as he clasped his hands in his lap. "This question is as relevant in the matters of the Church and the Crown as it was in the times of ancient Rome. Power, unchecked, can lead to corruption, even in those who are meant to be the most virtuous."

I nodded, lowering my gaze. "So, it's a reminder to remain vigilant, even—especially—over those who seem beyond reproach..."

"Exactly," he replied, his eyes sharpening with intent. "This is not just a rhetorical question. It's a warning—a reminder that power, even when held by those we trust, must always be watched," he said. "As you ascend to a higher station, you must remember this. You will be surrounded by advisors, counselors, and nobles—all with their own motives and ambitions. It will be your duty to discern truth from flattery, loyalty from deceit."

"A daunting responsibility," I murmured, my voice soft. "To hold power is to constantly question it."

He inclined his head. "And to wield it justly is to be ever aware of its weight." He glanced down at the book before him, his fingers brushing over the open page. "Power is seductive, but it is also perilous. The only way to stand firm is to be ever mindful, ever questioning. Even of yourself."

With that, the room fell into a contemplative silence, the crackling of the fire in the hearth the only sound. The gravity of his words weighed on me, and I found myself turning them over in my mind, lost in thought.

"I will strive to remember that," I managed to mumble at last.

Archbishop William regarded me with a look of approval, though his expression remained serious. "Good. Let us continue with something else for today." He stood and moved to one of the tall shelves, pulling down another book, this one thicker and bound in dark leather, its spine embossed with faded gold lettering.

He returned to his seat and set the book down with a thud. "We shall delve into Augustine's reflections on human nature and divine grace," he said, his tone instructive.

I tilted my head to have a better look of the book beneath his fingertips and read the words in silence: Confessiones Sancti Augustini—Saint Augustine's Confessions.