“Which reminds me, I brought you the latest news from Ginecea.” Lucas smiled back and went to retrieve a bundle of magazines he had put on the bookshelves at the entry of the Priest’s apartment. “Here it is. There is something about your granddaughter—” He leafed through the magazines until he found what he was looking for. “—a new picture and a whole article about some summer camp Pax is going to attend while her mother is preparing her campaign.” He gave the Priest the magazine and pointed at the picture of a slender girl with chestnut hair and big, hazel eyes. “She really is beautiful,” Lucas commented proudly as if he were talking about his daughter. He knew more about the Priest’s famous granddaughter than he knew about his other friends’ kids.
“Yes, she is. And she is smart, too. You can see how clever she is from the bright light in her eyes. She’ll do great things.”
“It seems that your daughter has a very good chance of winning the election.” Lucas had never lost the propensity to ask all the questions nobody had the brass to ask the Priest. But with age, he had learned how to temper his impulsive character. He had been dancing around the question for days, since he had known that Maurice was running for President of Ginecea. Now the unasked question was hanging between them, threatening to ruin their perfectly-oiled, morning routine.
“Go ahead. Ask what you want to ask.” Mauricio had decided long ago that it was fun to play with Lucas, and now that the sources of his amusement were scarce, that was one of the few pleasures left to him.
“What kind of President do you think she would be?” Lucas asked.
“What can I say—” Mauricio opened and closed his hands to lessen the stiffness and let the blood circulate. “—I can only hope that she’ll be more open-minded than the last three. Unfortunately, I don’t have a magic ball, like some believe,” Mauricio answered truthfully, adding a touch of dryness at the end. He had grown tired of the people who worshipped him and believed that he had an answer for everything. He was thankful for Lucas’ friendship because the man allowed him to be himself: old and cranky.
“Things have been hard for the slaves lately,” Lucas commented with an ironic understatement. The slaves’ conditions had deteriorated since Maurice’s grandmother’s presidency. Rosie’s mother had been at least fair for being a pure breed. Although she hadn’t done anything to better the slaves’ lives, she hadn’t done anything to worsen them, either, which was more than could be said about the other three presidents Ginecea had elected since then. The Tarin incident and his escape became what the pure breeds needed to launch a full-scale repression of an already repressed and beaten population of men. It didn’t matter it was a woman who actually committed the multiple murders and attempted to kill the President’s daughter. The accident got an outrageous cover up, and now, every pure breed girl in Ginecea studied in school that men, soulless creatures with animalistic instincts, had taken the lives of valiant guards, who had children and families, that tragic night.
“I don’t think that we’re going to see big changes soon, anyway,” Mauricio said cautiously. He owed Lucas some hope, but he didn’t want to lead him around chasing wild dreams.
“You don’t think that your daughter would be sympathetic to our cause?” Lucas asked, shifting around.
Mauricio kept silent for a long moment. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that his own daughter could be the next bad president—the next butcher, as her predecessors had been called by the male population, and for good reason. Thousands of innocent slaves had died victims of poor hygienic conditions, starvation, and, most of all, indifference. The City of Men had mourned their friends and relatives with a monthly ceremony to commit the names of the fallen to memory. The Priest’s sculpture garden had spontaneously become a memorial for the victims. Every month, rock by rock, a new sculpture was erected with the exact amount of stones as the number of men, and the occasional fathered woman, who had lost their lives.
“Honestly, I don’t think she can even consider such a thought. To be sympathetic with our cause, you must at least acknowledge that slavery is a problem. Maurice has lived all her life as the purest of the pure breeds; for her, slavery is a part of society. Like the sun and the moon rotating between day and night. She could be a magnanimous president. But that, I am afraid, is the whole extent our hopes can travel.” Mauricio felt exhausted.
“But what if she comes to know the truth about her birth?” Lucas was one of the few persons that knew about the relationship between the Priest and Maurice Layan. The others were Leander and Julius. Guen and Arias had been killed a few years before in a riot that had claimed several other lives; they died to defend the women’s rights to live in the City of Men. Unfortunately, one of the side effects generated by the pure breeds’ carnage of slaves had been a resurgence of hatred against women in the City of Men. Mauricio felt responsible for the massacre, and his health had started declining since then and never got better. He had never forgiven himself for the death of his closest friends, and eventually, the guilt dug a hole too deep into his heart. Now, in the box of memories that he kept under his bed, Mauricio also had a few mementos that belonged to Guen and Arias. Cordelia had been nice enough to give him something.
“She’d never believe me. The new Priestess would assure her about the holiness of the incognito. At the same time, the Priestess would be tipped off that we know and retaliate immediately against the slaves. We wouldn’t stand a chance against an army of vengeful pure breeds.” Mauricio had plenty of time to think nowadays. His health had declined to the point that he could barely leave his room. He was still leading the City of Men from his bed, and in the rare occasions he had slept the night before, he would lead the city from his couch. Since he didn’t have to supervise the fields anymore, he could think, undisturbed, for hours. Sometimes he wished to be relieved from thinking, too. But his mind was still sharp and lying around in his apartment bored him greatly.
“But if we could find a way to prove it?” Lucas asked.
“You're late for patrol duty,” Mauricio answered instead.
“Don’t change the topic; it’s not like we’re going to talk about it later. So, what if we can prove it?”
“How? I thought about it for several years, but all the plans I made were flawed. We don’t have either the power or the influence. We need the women’s cooperation to succeed.” Mauricio started his routine of stretching to reactivate the muscles in his sleepy legs.
“There are women who want to help us.” Lucas pointed a finger outside the window to show the Priest the workers painting the internal walls of the city.
“Yes, but they’re all fathered, and they barely have political rights.” Mauricio took a look at the women working just outside his window. He waved one hand and they answered back immediately, calling his name.
“They can vote!” Lucas said with emphasis.
“Yes, but they have to elect one voter, who in turn is going to represent thousands of them. Their vote is hardly significant to further our cause.” Mauricio, in the capacity of the Priest, greeted the women with gentle words of appreciation for their work.
“I understand that, but if they all decided to vote differently from what's suggested by their employers, their vote would start counting.” Lucas was stubborn, and he knew he was on to something.
“In that case, yes, it would definitely change the balance. And if all the fathered women would rebel against the pure breeds, things could finally change in Ginecea.” Mauricio blew a soft kiss with his hand toward a young girl who was smiling at him with affection.
“Hi, Lara. How is your mom?” the Priest asked the girl.
“Better. Thank you, sir, for sending the extra food for her,” Lara answered with another big smile.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” The Priest waved his hand at Lara, who bobbed her head, thanked him once more and then disappeared behind the open window to paint another part of the wall.
“Did you send them your dinner?”
Lucas asked with a suspicious tone after the girl was out of sight.
“I wasn’t hungry yesterday, and I hate wasting food. You know I can’t stand the idea.” Mauricio had hoped that Lucas wouldn’t discover his little deceptions. It wasn’t the first time, but he had managed, until now, to hide it successfully.
“I’ll tell Lorena that you don’t like her food,” Lucas said with a mock hurt tone for the alleged slight toward his sister’s culinary skills.
“Good try. Lorena knows I only eat what she cooks.” Mauricio liked the fact that they could still laugh and joke, even after so many years of knowing each other.
“Anyway, coming back to whatever we were talking about before you tried to entertain the girls with your charm…” Lucas started, but Mauricio stopped him.
“The fathered women would never rebel against the pure breeds. Although they should, for the way they’re treated.” His eyes went to the window again to look for the sky looming brightly through the enormous skylight that illuminated the inside of the city.
“But—” Lucas couldn’t let it go.
“They would lose what little they have to help the men. They resent the pure breeds because they want to be like them. Siding with the slaves is not going to be on their agenda for a long time, unless something happens to make them change their minds.” Mauricio closed his eyes and basked in the sun.
“Well, we’ll have to work on that, then.” Lucas stood up.
“Have a safe patrol today, and let’s hope that you can save some lives,” Mauricio offered his usual blessing and accepted Lucas’ tender hug.
“I will bring you some fresh recruits. I have a good feeling this morning.” Lucas smiled and turned around.
Mauricio watched the man until the door closed behind him and then went to retrieve his box from under his bed. He opened it reverentially, as usual, and took out the only picture he had left of Rosie. It was a clipping from the day of her marriage, and she looked exactly like the last time he had seen her. She was lovely in her wedding gown and she was looking straight ahead of her—as if she was looking at him.
“I’ll see you soon, my love.” He stroked the fading image on the much-abused piece of paper. “We’ll meet in a place where nobody will tear us apart.”
Backstory and Acknowledgments
While I was writing Pax in the Land of Women, two characters, Rosie and the Priest, came to life. I thought that their story deserved to be told, but Pax was already on its way to completion, and there wasn’t any space left in it for them. 2010 Nanowrimo came along, and I jumped at the opportunity to write 50,000 words around the slave and the President’s daughter. Last November, while my DH was playing Red Dead Redemption, I sat by him on the couch and wrote The Priest. And that is the reason why every time I think about this novel I automatically hear RDR’s soundtrack in my mind.
I feel I have several people to thank. I’ll start with my parents, from whom I have inherited a passion for reading. I’ll never thank my father enough for giving me a copy of I, Robot when I was seven years old. I owe many thanks to my friend, and loyal beta reader, Claudia, who has been patient enough to follow my journey through almost every word I have written. My everlasting gratitude goes to Alessandro for creating the cover. My love goes to my kids just for being them. Finally, without my husband’s support, none of this would be possible. The biggest thanks of all is to Roberto, who never complains about the ruin that has become our house, and who has read my stories, even though they aren’t his cup of tea.
Persons of Interest
A book is never a solitary endeavor, although the writer oftentimes thinks otherwise.
Amy Eye edited The Priest.
Cassie McCown proofread it.
Roberto Ruggeri formatted the novel.
Alessandro Fiorini created the cover.
You, hopefully, read the book.
About the Author
Monica La Porta is an Italian who landed in Seattle several years ago, where she lives with her family. Despite popular feelings about the Northwest weather, she finds the mist and the rain the perfect conditions to write. When Monica isn’t writing or reading, she can be found painting on her digital tablet or playing with homemade modeling dough. Whenever the sun shines, she comes out of her cave and treats her beloved beagle, Nero, to long walks into the Washington wild.
Web – http://www.monicalaporta.com
Twitter – @momilp
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