Chapter 1: Rachael and the priest
The huge gates of Wadi-Halaf closed behind me with with a thud. The sound of the crossbar being slid into place leaves me in no doubt that I will not be allowed to return inside until morning. The gates of the old fortress are never opened for anyone between dusk and dawn and I only just made it outside before dusk. I know other, secret, ways to get inside Wadi-Halaf, but I would only use those as a last resort. Anyway, I have no intention of returning, at least, not until my urgent mission is completed. A mission which, according to my mother, could take a few hours or a few days depending on the whims of people I have never met and whom I inherently distrust.
The gate captain took a lot of persuading to allow me to leave without an escort. The document I carry was not sufficient on its own for him to grant me passage. It was only when I reminded the captain that less than 24 hours ago, my half-sister and I had neutralised eight of the former warlord's guards while my father and his men completed a more-or-less bloodless coup. The city has a new warlord and I have been granted my freedom. I've never heard of a slave girl being granted her freedom before, and I'm about to test the validity of the document I carry.
The streets at night are unsafe for a woman travelling alone but my mother warned that delaying my mission until morning could be disastrous. I draw comfort from the iron slave collar which is still locked around my neck. The collar which acts as a warning to others not to take liberties with me without my owner's permission. I look around me and count my good fortune. The events of the last few days have left the streets empty of lurkers. I don't know whether that's because the citizens are hiding in fear, or if they are quietly celebrating the change of ruler. Power struggles between ruling lords rarely provide any benefit for the ordinary citizen and certainly not for a slave.
I head in the opposite direction to the familiar route leading downhill to the large water cistern in the town square. For most of my 20 years I've trodden that route to fetch water when Wadi-Halaf's own spring runs low. Water carrying is backbreaking work which many slave owners only demand of disobedient slaves as a punishment. At Wadi-Halaf it is a task demanded of all young female slaves during the dry season. At least the work has made me strong and fit, unlike the pampered bed warmers who are bought and sold for high prices in the city's slave markets.
My destination isn't far and I'm relieved to find the door to the temple is still open despite the late hour. While slaves are not forbidden to enter a temple, few rarely do so. According to ancient dogma, slaves are unworthy of a priest's attention as both their body and soul belong to their owner. Undeterred I enter a temple for the first time in my life. There are only few people inside and I easily identify the priest by his luxurious robes. He promptly marches towards me with a scowl on his face. This isn't starting well.
"If you must enter the house of God then cover your body," growls the priest.
In my haste to leave Wadi-Halaf, I hadn't considered my appearance. As is customary for slaves, I have spent my entire life without clothing beyond sandals and a small loin cloth which I'm permitted to wear when I'm outside the harem. The small copper rings through my nipples and the one through my clit are decorations I rarely notice in everyday life. As for the iron collar around my neck, it is merely a symbol of my lowly social status and nothing for me to be ashamed about. Here, though, I suddenly feel out of place and this priest is making me uncomfortable.
"You wear the collar of Wadi-Halaf," says the priest when he finally tears his eyes away from my tits and reads the symbols engraved on my collar. "Has your master sent you here? Is the new warlord in need of spiritual guidance? The services of the temple are always at the disposal of the warlord."
The priest's sudden willingness to be helpful takes me by surprise. I had been worried that my mission would be fraught with obstacles but now it seems it may be much easier than I expected. The priest hands me a long scarf which I put behind my neck and allow the ends to dangle over my breasts. To my mind the scarf only emphasises the size of my ample and well formed breasts, but the priest seems satisfied that I'm now adequately attired to be inside his temple.
"The warlord, my master, wishes for this document to be entered into the temple records so that its contents are witnessed by the eyes of God," I say, reciting the words my mother told me to say.
"Certainly," replies the priest, taking the rolled parchment from my hand. He waits while I produce the silver coin from the hidden pocket in my loincloth to pay the fee charged by the temple for recording documents. "How is the new warlord? As I said, the temple is only too willing to serve his spiritual needs".
"The warlord is resting after his exertions. I will convey your message at the appropriate time on my return, sahib," I reply politely, unsure of the correct form of address to a temple priest. Not that he would have noticed if I had called him a donkey. His eyes are once again ogling my tits. Instinctively, and like any well- trained slave girl, I quietly move so that he can get a better view of the objects of his desire.
I refrain from adding that the warlord is currently unconscious after a bout of heavy drinking and will probably wake in the morning with a thumping headache which will sour his mood for a week. And that will be the precursor to an even worse rage when he discovers that in his drunken merriment he had commanded that his concubines' sons and daughters be freed from the bonds of slavery. As the only child of his favourite slave concubine, I was first in line to receive my manumission document from my father's seneschal. Testing my new and unexpected freedom, and at the urging of my mother, I promptly left Wadi-Halaf and headed here.
I know my father and his ways. As soon as he sobers up, he will retract his orders to free his offspring and our brief moment of freedom will be lost forever. I also realise that my manumission document can easily be taken from me and destroyed. Even if my father doesn't retract his order, my continued freedom will always rest on a single piece of parchment, and the willingness of others to respect what is says. The slave tattoo on the back of my right shoulder is a far more convincing symbol of my social status than any written words. Unless, that is, those words are entered into temple records and are therefore deemed to be witnessed by God.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not fooling myself into believing that my actions will protect my freedom forever. The orders of a city warlord hold little weight outside of the city walls. But it might give pious people like my father cause to reconsider any action that might deprive me of my freedom. A delay which might provide me with enough time to make an escape. After seeing what happened to my cousin Zoe, I have no intention of parting with my freedom without a fight.
The priest returns a short while later and returns my manumission parchment, now bearing a temple seal denoting that it has been entered into temple records.
"The contents of this document are most unusual. I presume you are the Rachael who is being freed from slavery. I should warn you that even with the temple seal added, there is no certainty that this document will be respected by those outside of the warlord's domain. I suggest you remove all the trappings of your slavery and keep your tattoo well-hidden until you can have the symbols of freedom added to your tattoo. But don't try to have the tattoo removed as it is a certain death sentence for you and anyone who helps you if you are caught doing so."
Although the priests words are well meaning, they merely confirm what I already know. The ease with which I have completed this mission now leaves me with the dilemma of what to do until morning. Wandering the streets until daylight is asking for trouble, and crawling through one of the ancient and crumbling secret tunnels into Wadi-Halaf isn't a lot safer.
