Fic: Wayward World (RPF - Gen)

Oct 12, 2008 22:38

Title: Wayward World
Author: Epeeblade
Rating: PG
Fandom/Characters: Real Person Fiction/ Derek Jacobi, Charles Malik Whitfield
Warnings: Religious imagery
Wordcount: ~2300
Disclaimer: The portrayal of the actors Derek Jacobi and Charles Malik Whitfield in this work is fiction and does not depict the real lives of either actor.

Series: This takes place in poisontaster's "Kept" Verse, which you can find more about here: whatwekeep I am honored to be able to take part in this universe.

Notes: Beta'd by lapillus, but all mistakes are my own. In this universe slavery is legal. I wanted to portray a religious opposition to it, so I made a few leaps as to include a church with enough capital to invest.

Summary: Father Jacobi is interrupted and his world challenged.


Wayward World
By Epeeblade

If a man beats his male or female slave with a rod and the slave dies as a direct result, he must be punished, but he is not to be punished if the slave gets up after a day or two, since the slave is his property. Exodus 21:20-21

Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh. 1 Peter 2:18

Your male and female slaves are to come from the nations around you; from them you may buy slaves. You may also buy some of the temporary residents living among you and members of their clans born in your country, and they will become your property. Leviticus 25:44-45

If you buy a Hebrew slave, he is to serve for only six years. Set him free in the seventh year, and he will owe you nothing for his freedom. If he was single when he became your slave and then married afterward, only he will go free in the seventh year. But if he was married before he became a slave, then his wife will be freed with him. If his master gave him a wife while he was a slave, and they had sons or daughters, then the man will be free in the seventh year, but his wife and children will still belong to his master. But the slave may plainly declare, 'I love my master, my wife, and my children. I would rather not go free.' If he does this, his master must present him before God. Then his master must take him to the door and publicly pierce his ear with an awl. After that, the slave will belong to his master forever. Exodus 21:2-6 NLT

[Encrytped]
To his holiness, Gregory XX,

Holy Father, I must relate to you the following events which occurred earlier this day. I fear our work is in jeopardy and steps must be taken to remedy that.

The tingling of the bells had just begun to fade as the door to the chapel slammed open and several men stormed into the dimly lit room. Father Jacobi ignored them and continued with the next section of the Eucharistic Prayer, ignoring the clang as the altar server, Enrique, dropped the four bells.

"Are you Derek Jacobi?" The man at the lead asked, ignoring the hushed whispered of the faithful in the pews.

Father Jacobi looked up from his book of prayer and frowned. "This is God's house."

"I am Special Agent Charles Malik Whitfield and I have a warrant to search this Villa. I don't care who it belongs to."

"Clearly. You will wait until I have finished the mass. Have some respect."

"Fine, I'll wait," And then the man sauntered in, ignoring the baptismal font, and refusing to genuflect in the direction of the sacristy before taking a seat in the very last row, motioning for the rest of his men to follow.

Nonplused, Jacobi continued with the sacrament, ignoring the men of the so-called law as best as he could. When the time came to place the host in the sacristy, he slid his hand over the button that would alert his secretary. Lord, may the warning be in time, he prayed silently, that there wasn't yet another cadre of men waiting at the mansion, harassing the staff and the Sisters.

Whitfield had the audacity to stand on line for communion; he smirked when Jacobi simply offered him the slim wafer instead of challenging his right to be there. The priest merely said, "The body of Christ," and prayed for transformation of the man standing before him. They would need all of his prayers to make it through this day.

Afterwards, he dismissed the crowd, who did not linger. No one wanted to be subjected to the eye of the law. Not when often, one's freedom was on the line.

Jacobi ignored Whitfield as long as he could, carefully pulling off his stole and folding the long fabric with precise movements. Under his formal vestments, he wore the simple black suit and collar of his station. No matter if he was in the field or the church, Jacobi never left his room without - his uniform often served his only protection. Finally, the vestments hung and put away, he ventured out of the room behind the altar and marched down to the entrance where the men waited.

Whitfield had a restless motion about him, unable to sit still, he paced and fidgeted until Jacobi finished his slow walk. Even once he stood before them, Whitfield could not settle. "Any more 'rituals' you want us to wait through?"

"No," Jacobi replied smoothly. "But thank you for offering."

With nothing more than a roll of his eyes, Whitfield stepped right into his spiel, pulling out a copy of his warrant. "I'm here to investigate claims that you've been purchasing slaves and then exporting them to the Holy Vatican Empire."

"They are not my slaves," Jacobi corrected. "They are property of His Holiness."

Whitfield waved his hand, "You're the name listed on this property, in charge of managing the slaves assigned to Villa Terra. I'm going to need access to all of your records, and all the residences on the property."

"All 300 acres of it?" Jacobi asked, mind spinning, trying to think five steps ahead of his man.

Before Whitfield could respond, a scuffling noise behind them alerted them to Enrique's presence, as the boy attempted to put out all the candles at the altar, stretching his arm to extinguish them with the long golden snuffer. "Enrique," Jacobi called. "Thank you. You should head back to school."

The boy put the snuffer in its place along the back of the altar, then made his way towards Whitfield and his men. He needed to pass them in order to leave the chapel, and he walked with his head down, feet stumbling along the red carpet. Before he could pass them, Whitfield grabbed the boy's arm and forced his face up with his other hand. The brand at his neck seemed to almost glow.

"Fond of your boys, padre?"

Jacobi could feel his face flushing, and he struggled to keep his temper before he answered. "If the boy is indeed my property, what business is it of yours what I do with him, Mr. Whitfield?"

"That's Agent Whitfield," he said, releasing the boy, who ran out of the chapel. "And it's my business exactly what you're doing with these slaves. Especially if you're shipping them out of the country."

Jacobi starting walking, and didn't look back, knowing the agents would follow him as he led them out of the Chapel and towards the huge mansion on the hill. "I don't see how I could possibly be doing that," he answered. "There are meticulous records."

"I'm sure you're aware," Whitfield said, not even a bit out of breath as he kept up easily with Jacobi's brisk pace, "of the very nature of your Pope's agreement with this country?"

Oh yes, Jacobi was far too aware of that. For the greater good, the Holy Father had stopped speaking and writing against the system of slavery this empire relied on to survive. His silence allowed the Church to spread out across the land, seeding the place with missions, while quietly buying up slaves, rescuing them from harsh masters, saving the elderly from certain death to live out their lives in peace, keeping families together, and making sure children could stay children, despite what this damned place demanded of child slaves. He thought of poor Enrique and what Whitfield had insinuated - out there in the world, the boy would be his Body slave, and worth nothing more than a hole to fuck. Even in ancient Rome, slaves could buy their freedom, but not here in this enlightened empire.

Jacobi took a moment to reel in his anger once more. "I am aware, as a servant of the Church."

"Then you know any word of slaves disappearing out of the empire needs to be addressed," Whitfield said. "You understand the outrage if such valuable assets are being shipped overseas."

Assets, as if these human lives were nothing more than stocks and bonds to be traded. Although, Jacobi thought sadly, here, that was true. Slaves translated to numbers in a computer program, skills and abilities traded and matched with no thought for the person they belonged to.

"I understand." He didn't have to like it, but he understood. "You'll understand if I need to contact Senator Morelli, just to make sure everything is done appropriately?"

Whitfield snorted and murmured under his breath. "The things I have to go through, just so some rich bastards can go skiing in the Alps."

Jacobi didn't think he was supposed to hear that, so he didn't reply. "Have you had a tour of the Villa?" he asked, gesturing to the fields that stretched out all along their right side, stretches of green, with tiny dots of the slaves who worked them. Of course, here, they reaped the harvest, ate the food they grew, never had to work to exhaustion, and always had plenty to eat and the best medical care. It was the best the Church could do, for now, building these sanctuaries. Please, oh heavenly Father, he prayed, let the very least they could do change the world some day.

"I have some men watching them work," Whitfield replied. "I need your records."

He swallowed. "My office is at the mansion."

They walked past the walled in cemetery, and Jacobi made the sign of the cross, offering up prayers to those who had lived out their lives here. Whitfield frowned at it, but didn't say anything, not even when they passed the tall stone tower, looking odd against the horizon, crumbling and rotting against the too blue sky. He didn't see any sign of any officers of the law nearby; they seemed focused on the fields, the workshops and factory closer to the border of the Villa -- the places where the slaves worked. Jacobi worried about the ones at the school, what would they think of the curriculum, one that ignored the basic tenets of the Slave System?

"Does the name Miguel Ferrer mean anything to you?" Whitfield ask, as if they were merely making conversation.

"Should it?" Jacobi answered carefully.

"He was sold to the Church two weeks ago. Records place this villa as his assigned residence."

"I don’t know every slave who comes here," Jacobi answered, "Few by name. If you are patient, all will be answered once we get to my office."

Jacobi expected to find the mansion as he had left it that morning - the Sisters nursing the elderly slaves who also lived there, children running through the halls before being shepherded to classes by the young deacons in training, and his dog Francis, the Irish Setter waiting for him on the front stoop. Instead, more of the officers flanked the building and inside they had all of the Sisters corralled into a group in the front hall, prevented from going about their daily tasks. He could hear Francis barking, probably shut up in a room somewhere.

"What is going on here?" Jacobi demanded.

"Did you get anything out of them?" Whitfield asked one of his men, who stood before the group of women, some sobbing, others holding each other. Sister Maria Raphael prayed the Rosary loudly in the corner; the other sisters had stopped at the appearance of Father Jacobi.

"Is this how you work? Harassing helpless women?" Jacobi shouted, unwilling to shackle his rage this time.

"Some of these helpless women," at this the agent grabbed one of the sisters from the group and tore away the very front of the habit that normally covered them from chin to ankle, revealing the brand on her neck, "are slaves."

"Others are not," Jacobi responded coolly. "And they are property of the Church, which has let them answer the call of God and take holy orders. How dare you treat Church property this way! Sister Angela, contact Senator Morelli immediately. He should have a few words to say about this."

"Relax Padre," Whitfield said. "We'll back off. Let them go," he nodded his head and the group of women dispersed, retreating into the maze like rooms of the old mansion. The officer who had grasped Sister Veronica so harshly whispered something in Whitfield's ear, then moved away. "Your office, Father?"

Jacobi led Whitfield and three of his men upstairs, and through the hallways, noting how they observed the place - probably noticing the richness of the wall hangings, the polished wood floors, all evidence of the wealth of the Church, although this building, indeed the entire Villa, had once belonged to a very wealthy man, who had donated the lot of it at his death. Jacobi knew one good deed could not overcome a life of slave-owning, but the Church never turned it's nose from a gift, not when it could be put to such a righteous use.

"Here," he let them in, let them tear through his records and didn't bat an eye when they confiscated his computer. Before they did, Jacobi found the record that indicated Ferrer had died shortly after coming to the Villa. "Brain cancer," he said. "A very poor purchase for the Church."

"Mmm," Whitfield murmured, but didn't say anything more. "Your computer will be returned once we've copied the hard drive. I'll be expected a call from Senator Morelli, of course. Have a good day, Father."

Things didn't exactly go back to normal after the agents left. Jacobi tried to talk to the Sisters, but they were far too upset. The schools canceled class for the day, but he didn't see any of the slave children outside. None of the adults came to speak to him, and after dark, no lights shone from any of the tiny houses near the fields. They had gone from acting like freed peoples to being frightened, scared the empire would seize them, tear from them the protection of the Church. His warning to his secretary, Deacon Sanford had not come in time, and the man apologized, unable to warn the staff, to keep the Sisters from being terrorized by strange men, their habits torn away to check their slave status.

Truly, Jacobi hoped the Senator could arrange something unpleasant for Agent Whitfield. Morelli feared for his own immortal soul, enough to support the Villa, even if he did not know the true work being done here.

Late that night Father Jacobi made his way to the crumbling tower. Inside mosaics along the wall told the Stations of the Cross as he climbed the narrow stairway, until he reached the very top. There, from underneath the altar there - a small stone slab, hardly enough to be called an altar, but enough to hide the hidden trapdoor - he pulled out a large Bible. When he opened the book, a computer screen sprang to life. He had a letter to write.

…they seemed very interested in the fate of our most recent delivery. I am relieved he has been safely delivered to Rome. Please have him move on as quickly as possible, so the Lord's work may continue.

I have the honour to remain Your Holiness's obedient servant,
The Reverend Father, Derek Jacobi, S.J.

rps, kept, my fic

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