Chapter 1: Summoned to a meeting

One of the better decisions I have made in recent times has been the inclusion of Amina and her younger sister, Farai, among the young women helping me to run my slave training house. Both Amina and Farai have adapted well to their enslavement, despite the limitations it imposes on their freedom of movement. Normally their slavery isn’t a problem, but I’m mindful that some of their younger sisters avoided becoming slaves when they were adopted. Family reunions are simply not possible, and I sometimes wonder how the two young women really feel about the further division of what is left of their once-large family.

For the last three years, the Halls of Valhalla has regularly operated with between twenty and twenty-four young adult female slaves undergoing training. With Hanna in charge of the kitchen, and Farai handling the administration, I can let Zoe and Amina take charge of the slaves’ training regime. That leaves me free to deal with the purchase of new slaves and the sale of my stock. It’s a division of responsibilities that has served us well. The Halls of Valhalla is too small to generate a huge profit, but it’s enough to keep us all comfortably housed and fed.

Finding suitable slaves to purchase is always tricky. Fortunately I have had a close working relationship with my father ever since I gained my own freedom from slavery, and ownership of the Halls of Valhalla. My father’s caravanserai at Wadi Halaf is one of the best known stopping places for the many trade caravans that pass through our city. As such, my father is among the first to know about any merchandise for sale. If that merchandise consists of young freshly enslaved females from distant lands, then I’m interested in negotiating a fair price to purchase them. The larger slave trading houses lack the specialist skill and patience to train newly enslaved women who cannot speak our local language, and whom don’t necessarily accept their new status in life. That leaves a profitable niche market for me.

My cousin Zoe has been my close friend since we were young children. Zoe was a house slave at the Halls of Valhalla when its former owners, Leif and Sigmund, met with their untimely deaths. Thanks to my father’s support, and much to the annoyance of some of the city’s aldermen, the Halls of Valhalla passed into my hands along with ownership of my cousin. In recent years she and I have been casual lovers in between our infrequent sexual encounters with men.

Until recently, Zoe has refused my offer to free her from slavery. Unlike me, she has preferred the lack of responsibility that goes with being a slave. However, she finally agreed to accept my offer of manumission when I promised that she would always have a home with me. In reality, her manumission made little difference in our daily lives. Neither of us like wearing more than the minimal clothes that we don when we are out in public. Inside the Halls, we invariably dress similar to the slaves, namely naked except for a loin cloth. Only the absence of a slave collar and our modified tattoo on our right shoulder blade denotes our manumission from slavery. Even so, the presence of a tattoo means that Zoe and I are tolerated rather than welcomed into the social circles inhabited by those who who have always been free. Consequently, it’s no surprise that Zoe and I prefer the social company of slaves.

On a windy winter afternoon, I receive a message from my father instructing me to come to Wadi Halaf. As usual, his message doesn’t say why he wants to see me. Although I have been a free woman for five years, my father still treats me as his slave on occasion. He has never entirely forgiven me for accepting my manumission that he had granted me in a moment of drunken largesse. His periodic summons invariably lack any of the polite pleasantries he affords to the free-born during business and social interactions. I don’t make an issue of my father’s lack of civility, since my visits to Wadi Halaf give me a chance to see my mother and half-sisters, plus a chance to do some profitable business.

I cross the enclosed forecourt of Wadi Halaf on my way to the main building. A small trading caravan is untidily parked in the huge forecourt. Animals are being fed and watered; a couple of the wagons are receiving maintenance, and there’s a general hive of activity. The gathering has all the appearance of a caravan hastily preparing to depart to avoid being obliged to pay my father for an overnight stay at Wadi Halaf.

My attention is drawn to two wagons parked in the lee of one of the store rooms. The larger wagon is fitted with a large cage inside which four female slaves are sitting looking very forlorn. All four are in their mid to late thirties, so are unlikely to be of interest to me as new stock for the Halls of Valhalla. The second wagon is much smaller and has a metal coffin lying on its bed. The coffin is ornately decorated and is similar to those used by some religious orders for holding the remains of their former high priests. There are two drovers tending to the oxen attached to the wagons. I move closer to take a better look.