The Priest

The Priest

Book One of the Ginecean Chronicles

A novel by Monica La Porta

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Monica La Porta All rights
reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part
in any form.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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Discover more works from Monica La Porta at
http://www.monicalaporta.com

Table of Contents

Dedication

The Priest

Backstory and Acknowledgements

Persons of Interest

About the Author

Dedication

To my husband, Roberto. Always

.

Mauricio had not slept well; he played with
the collar rubbing against the skin on his neck. He had shared his
small cell with three other men for the last week. It wasn’t the
first time, but his body was bigger now and he occupied more space.
The muscles in his legs were aching. He needed to stretch them, but
there was no space to walk between his bed, a narrow plank of wood,
and the wall. Three snoring bodies were fighting for comfort on the
dirty floor.

He raised his arms over his head and
stretched his neck. He flattened his back against the wall and then
pressed down to hug his legs. "How can this be so painful?
"
he asked himself. His calves were in knots.
Not a cramp.
It
was his left foot.
Not again,
he thought and then swore out
loud.

“Stop making so much noise; it’s impossible
to sleep,” one of the men complained.

Yeah right, because you were resting so
comfortably before I spoke out loud
. Mauricio almost laughed.
Almost. Then his right foot cramped too, and he didn’t think it was
funny anymore.

“Silence!” the guard outside his cell
ordered. She had a screeching voice.

I’d give anything to shut your mouth once
and for all
. “And if I don’t? What?” Mauricio knew better than
to antagonize the guard, a woman who held his future in her bony
hands. But he couldn’t help himself.

“Get out.” The guard opened the cell door
and pointed her gun at him.

Mauricio noticed that she had a whip ready
in her other hand. “Right away,” he murmured under his breath.

His legs weren’t steady enough and the
hesitation in his movements earned Mauricio a taste of the guard’s
spitefulness. He managed to suppress a scream when the whip lashed
his chest, but a tear escaped his eye.
I hate you with all my
heart.
He turned his head to hide his pain from the guard. The
three men remaining in the cell were silently fighting for the
empty bed. To Mauricio the sight was more painful than the
whiplash. He was aware of his condition as a slave. Sometimes he
wondered if the other men were.

“You worthless excuse for a slave should
thank the Heavens the Priestess seems to think you could be of some
use in the Temple. If it were up to me, I would have put you out of
your misery already,” the guard said.

Mauricio didn’t utter another word. He
walked through the dimly lit hallway with the point of the whip
pressed firmly against his shoulder blade. His legs straightened
with each step he took on the hay-covered dirt floor.
At least
I’m outside my cell; maybe I’ll get some sleep after all
,
Mauricio thought, satisfied by the turn of events. The feeling
didn’t last long.

“Here, spend the rest of the night in better
company.” The guard pushed Mauricio inside a dark cell that smelled
of rotten fish. She laughed loudly at her joke while she closed the
door of the isolation chamber.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. He could have
done without another set of fresh bruises. Still, defying women was
one of the pleasures of his young life.

He sat on the crude floor, letting his eyes
adjust to the darkness. He knew the place all too well. Normally
after a few days of total isolation, he could make out shapes. The
prolonged starvation produced images to keep his brain occupied
while his stomach was painfully empty. He smiled. He could sleep
undisturbed now.

“Wake up. You're wanted elsewhere.” The
guard’s voice echoed inside his cell.

Today we have brutality with a side of
loud banging against the door
, he thought, his eyes still
closed despite all the noise.

The woman barged in, the stomping of her
reinforced boots waking him completely.
Nothing says 'good
morning' like the fear of being beaten
. He directed his
thoughts toward a happier place. This kind of mental reasoning was
his lifeline. He occupied himself for hours with this endeavor.
Right now, it helped him to look ahead and filter out the barrage
of insults bestowed upon him. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone mad.
The guards weren’t smart or creative. After eighteen years, he had
heard all the possible variations of how worthless he was. There
weren’t too many of them.

“Idiot, listen to me.” A crack of the whip
on the floor accompanied the order.

The crack against the floor and not his skin
made Mauricio suddenly aware.
Why haven’t you given me my
morning whipping yet?
It was a first. Firsts of any kind made
him wary.

“Behave yourself,” the guard said with
another crack of the whip. She aimed closer, but refrained from
hitting him.

Mauricio followed the woman through a long
hallway he had never seen before. It had a high-vaulted ceiling
supported by brick walls. Mauricio noticed the bricks because the
hallway was lit by a myriad of sconces. He walked along with
growing fear. He had heard stories. Young men disappeared from
their cells and never came back. Nobody knew what happened to
them.

“Stay put and wait your turn.” The woman
left him.

The white room was barren of both humans and
furnishings. The light was too intense for Mauricio’s unaccustomed
eyes. He shielded his eyes with an outstretched hand, but the white
glare seeped through his slim fingers. A new smell assaulted his
nose. It was crisp and cold, leaving a citrus aftertaste on his
palate.

“You, come here,” a voice called; then a
woman’s head emerged from a door he hadn’t seen. He realized that
there were several white doors concealed in the walls.

“Hurry up.” She was getting annoyed.

Mauricio moved right away. In his experience
with women in general, he discovered it was wise to jump to orders
immediately. He went through the door and into another white room.
This one was warmer and more humid than the former, a pleasant
surprise—Mauricio was always cold.

“Remove your clothes, shower, and don this
gown,” the voice commanded.

Mauricio looked around and discovered that
he was in a room covered from floor to ceiling with white tiles.
Blasted tiles
, he thought, sliding in his worn slippers
despite his attempt to control himself. He stripped to his
underwear and moved to one of the shower stalls lining the wall in
front of him.

“Remove everything. When you're done, you’ll
have a new set of clothes,” the woman said in a bored voice.
Mauricio reluctantly tossed his underwear on the bench by the pile
of clothing. Although he didn’t possess anything, not even those
clothes, he had been wearing the ragged garments for some time now
and had formed an attachment to them. He thought of them as
his
.

“Scrub your skin with the soap.” The woman
didn’t look at him; she was giving instructions while dialing
numbers on her cell phone.

Mauricio did as ordered.
This isn’t
bad.
The water was hot and the soap had the same citrus scent
he had smelled in the other room. He turned toward the wall to gain
some privacy. The idea was silly, he knew that, but it made him
feel better as he washed his private parts. Mauricio enjoyed a few
more minutes of unspoiled happiness. He closed his eyes and opened
his senses to the experience.

“Don the gown.” The woman’s voice intruded
on his moment of peace.

Mauricio reluctantly turned off the water
and hastily dried his body with a small towel lying on the short
wall separating his shower stall from the next. The towel was
already wet; someone had used it before him. His body barely dry,
he reached for the green gown hanging from a hook and finished
drying his skin with the rough fabric.

“You are done here. Go to the next room.”
The woman opened a door next to her and rushed him away without
interrupting her phone call.

Mauricio went from the steamy warmth of the
room where he showered to the freezing cold of an icy-blue chamber.
He couldn’t fathom what this room's function was. The door closed
behind him and he was left to stare at the activity before his
eyes. He wasn’t the only slave in the room. There were several
young men, probably around his age; some he recognized from the
working room. All of them were wearing the same green gown. They
were also standing in a line, waiting their turn to be inspected by
an older woman with white hair sitting at the end of the room.

From his corner, Mauricio couldn’t see what
the older woman was doing to them. They weren’t screaming, though,
which was reassuring. He stepped behind the last man in line.

“What is she doing?” Mauricio whispered to
the man in front of him.

“I don’t know,” answered the man, whose
voice revealed he was nothing but a scared boy.

Mauricio thought it wiser to wait for his
turn and not say anything else. He did as the others did. Finally,
he was in front of the older woman. She opened his mouth, looked at
his teeth, muttered something unintelligible, and scribbled a few
notes on a pad sitting on her lap. She patted his legs with
uninterested hands and wrote another note. Then she yanked open his
gown and gave him a brief look. Several notes followed. When
Mauricio thought he was through with the procedure, she groped his
genitals with two cold fingers.
What are you doing?
With
wild eyes, he recoiled at her probing.

“Fill this and take it to the last room at
the end of the hall.” The older woman gestured toward a tray with
transparent plastic cups. Mauricio picked up the cup and left.

Mauricio looked down, satisfied he hadn’t
spilled anything on the floor. He put the specimen cup on the tray
and waited for the window to open. He then sat on the only chair in
the small, aseptic place, mindlessly fidgeting with his collar; it
only tickled if he gently tugged at it, but it stung if he tried to
walk through the outer doors. Mauricio had foolishly tried enough
to know. There were scars hidden behind the rigid, metal cuff
attesting to that. Nevertheless, four years after being
chosen
to be a semental, he still longed to be outside.

He had given his quota for the day and now
he only had to wait patiently to be brought back to his cell. It
didn’t make him feel good. He felt guilty every time the field crew
came back from a long day of laboring outside in the desert heat.
He was living an easier life compared to theirs, a privilege he
resented. The other men despised those like him. They came back
from the fields with bruises and wounds. He stayed in the Temple,
ate three warm meals daily and stayed in his own cell where he
could rest during the day. His face was unmarred by hideous scars,
and even those on his body had almost faded. The women kept him
fit. He had to exercise every day and had regular physiological
checkups. But he didn’t have friends. And he was never allowed
outside.

Mauricio knew that this
privileged
life wasn’t going to last forever. Sooner or later he would have to
share the harshness of the sun on his back with the field crews. He
was looking forward to it. He wanted to belong. More than anything
else, he wanted to be able to stand up and look the other men in
the eye without feeling ashamed. And he wanted freedom. But that
was the dream of every man in Ginecea. Mauricio was a slave. His
father had been a slave. His father’s father had been a slave. His
entire paternal lineage had probably never tasted freedom.