Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 6. Chapter 6: The First Pick Blow

Chapter 6: The First Pick Blow

Through an act of filtering, the first pure light of morning was made fetid by the rust on the iron bars of the slaves' cell. The tiny gap in the wall high above their heads allowed this light to look down upon the fetal forms of two unwilling compatriots of ill fortune.

Junayd aroused himself with a slight moan. His chapped lips parted and became somewhat relieved as his dry tongue tried to wet them. He opened his eyes. A grey stone wall was only an arm's length away. For a moment he tried to stir himself, and instantly felt the pain of his sore wrists pillowed under the side of his head. The rope burns effortlessly reinstated all the misery of his whereabouts to his slowly awakening mind.

A musty smell seeped into his nose – moist straw; the straw he was forced to bed down on last night. Slowly, achingly, he maneuvered his body to a sitting position.

Gathering and folding his legs under him, he half-smiled to see that despite Ahmed's stated intentions of keeping them apart, the professional soldier had eventually bunked down on the straw next to him, albeit as far against the other wall as he could get.

Ahmed snored lightly; he too was sleeping on his side, facing the stone, and using his hands as his pillow on the mouldering straw of their 'mattress.'

While the younger man watched, Ahmed twitched. And then again. Suddenly Ahmed jumped to his feet, and Junayd became aware that all the lightning-like actions of the warrior were for good reason. He knew instinctively that the professional soldier's hackles had been raised by sensing the approach of threatening danger.

Alert now to that threat too, Junayd observed his companion, and had the impression that Ahmed's wide stance was communicating to the soldier's consciousness that he needed his sword. Then upon his dark features, Junayd saw the creeping light of ensuing panic; someone had taken his weapon from him. And with that piece of information dawning on him as sullied as the light creaking in above their heads, Ahmed realized in a crushing moment of grief exactly where he was.

The dervish chuckled to himself, despite believing that Ahmed could take it the wrong way. He scooted his heels on the bedding as a preliminary action to stand, but was roundly chided by the soldier for this slight noise.

"Shush!" Ahmed's tone said he meant all business, and so did the raised finger he pointed directly at Junayd's forehead. He craned his ear towards the iron bars of the cell facing the corridor.

As quietly as he could, Junayd rose to his feet, and then he too could hear the far echoing sound of someone approaching, someone with keys: with the sound wafted the faint smell of food.

The captives moved to the position against the wall opposite the barred gate.

Stefan Karolyi's churlish voice began to sing and reverberate off of the high vaulting. His tone pulsated with innuendo.

"A woman is a tempting thing –

A sorceress of delight to bring

Honeyed kisses to her fatal sting."

"Morning, men." The overseer stopped, and with keys jostling from one hand near his belt, stood akimbo before the gate. "Or shall I say, 'Morning dogs.'" Stefan leaned on the bars and laughed.

Junayd glanced and saw contempt reappear on Ahmed's features for their Hunish taskmaster.

Ahmed's ire seemed to drift away as the dervish noticed the soldier sniffing with greedy flaring nostrils above his dark moustache hairs. Soon Junayd smelled it too; it was something warm and flavoursome.

Scullery boys gathered around Stefan's heels like pigeons in a public plaza around a statue. Two were holding bowls like last night, two were toting fabric, and four more lugged wooden buckets with dripping rope-bail handles.

"Master says you are to be fed. So, you will get your gruel. Mistress says you should be dressed in non-heathen clothes, so you will get linen tunics. But, I say that you foul-smelling devils stink like Lucifer himself, so you will be bathed first."

Ahmed kept his eyes trained on the threat before them, but his lips gestured to the side and asked Junayd in low tones, "What's that he says?"

The dervish replied, "Food, clothes, and a bath."

"A bath!" The professional soldier did not try to hide his incredulity. "Christian swine do not bathe!"

Karolyi interrupted them. "Enough talk. Strip and stand against the wall."

"What's that?"

"Take off your clothes, he says."

Ahmed loosened his stance with heavily bent knees. Junayd saw a wicked sparkle in the soldier's large brown eyes; it was a glint highlighted and accented by the lopsided grin that now leaned in with the rest of his head to say, "You first, religious man."

While sounds of the supervisor turning the key in the lock clinked in his ear, Junayd held Ahmed's mirthful gaze, and extracted his black wool cassock off his body and over his head.

The soldier cast frank appraisal up and down Junayd's body. The dervish knew he was fit, although on the lean side; he knew his body was mostly hairless, except for a light brown tuft between his pectoral muscles. This light coating only reappeared much lower as a line down his belly that crossed his navel and descended into his pubic region.

Junayd's hands mindlessly went to scratch and lift his scrotum from both sides. "Your turn," he said, happy to see his scratching had an audience of one soldier.

Stefan Karolyi was in the cell now. There were some instructions, and movement of the boys in their duties.

Ahmed held Junayd's gaze and pulled off his long armour shirt with its garish chevron stripes. Then he undid his trousers and let them fall to the floor to be kicked off.

The dervish could feel himself unable to keep from showing his astonishment. His blinks scanned Ahmed from all over, from head to toe, in slow motion admiration. The professional soldier's body was like the old Roman statue of Zeus that still stood in the centre of his hometown. Only, where the Roman form was pale and lifeless, the living man before him was lithe in the subtle movements of muscles and flesh.

Instead of being cold marble burnished in golden sunlight, Ahmed's body was bronzed in dark curls of fine hair. His massive chest started with this growth and Junayd's eyes followed it helplessly down the man's taut abdomen, his pubic region, and then over the man's upper legs, which were built like steel.

Ahmed returned Junayd's earlier favour, knowing he had his younger companion beat; he lifted his hefty member with both hands so the dervish could see the full expanse of hairy scrotum the Sipahi possessed.

Suddenly, Junayd was hit from the side with an ice-cold torrent. In another moment, Ahmed got the same.

Wiping water from his eyes, Junayd turned to see Stefan with an empty bucket dripping in his hands.

"Turn around," he said roughly. "Time to clean your heathen backsides."

"Turn," Junayd told Ahmed.

Both men put hands on the wall and got splashed again. Ahmed's gaze burned hot in good humour. He smiled and sputtered out some water from his mouth

"Dervish, this is not a Turk's idea of a bath."

"No, Kapikulu. But it should help with your stink nonetheless."

Ahmed puzzled momentarily over being addressed by the first half of his fighting corps' name. But then he re-gathered his thoughts, and grinned. "Humph. My stink; you're the one wearing wool! Cehennem[1]…pee-yuuu."

Another splash of water hit both men while Junayd was still regarding his companion. As he dripped and shook rivulets of water out of his beard, Ahmed tilted his head back and let out a gut-busting laugh.

It was the first time Junayd had seen an unguarded reaction from the man, and he had to admit to himself that the soldier looked good when he was laughing. Despite their dire situation – or, maybe because of it – he hoped to see a lot more of his mirth in the future. He could get used to it.

˚˚˚˚˚

Shuffling along, Junayd admired Ahmed's new clothes. For the presumably rough work they were about to do, linen was a blessing.

They were shackled hand and foot again, and following Stefan Karolyi through a passage on the ground level of the castle. Two guards were behind the men, but they were not acting as belligerent as yesterday.

Stefan's form disappeared through a stone archway, and the Turks followed to reemerge into the morning light of the courtyard.

They stumbled along the uneven surface of the cobblestone paving. Junayd listened contemplatively to the iron clatter their instruments of bondage made scraping over the stones.

When they neared the centre of the open area, the overseer spun around and pointed. "There," he said without emotion.

The slaves halted, and the guards removed the rusty fetters. Karolyi circled them, speaking as if this were the first day of school.

"A magic man used his rods and divined that this spot is where water lies below."

The dervish smirked in scepticism.

"What's that he says?" Ahmed asked.

"He just told us, Kapikulu, that this is the area a pagan soothsayer said well water will be found."

Ahmed was angrily amazed. "We're on top of a stone cliff! Are we to first dig though the solid rock of this mountain, then deeper yet until we hit water?!"

"Sir," Junayd said deferentially to Stefan Karolyi. "The water, if there is any to have, must be a hundred…two hundred…feet down – "

The overseer cut him off curtly with a nasty slap to the cheek. "You are slaves now!" he bellowed. And then in another moment, he laughed.

As Junayd's hand went up to rub his stinging humiliation, he caught the inferno of anger smouldering behind Ahmed's eyes. Suddenly the dervish felt fonder of the soldier. If that man could sympathize with his personal pain, either physical discomfort or mental anguish, then the burly man could not be all bad.

Karolyi snapped his fingers and drew both men's attention back to him. "You, Muselmänner,[2] will dig until you die, or until you hit water."

The overseer skulked behind the captives. He laid hands on the men's shoulders, and drew them back. He wanted their ears to be as close as possible to hear him say, "Who knows, do this task quickly and with no protest, and the lord of this place may set you free."

Junayd nearly gasped.

As if to prove his point, Stefan Karolyi lifted his hands straight up and off of their bodies.

Ahmed was all nervous concern, as he asked, "What dervish, what..?"

"This Hun says that if we complete the well quickly, and with no complaints, the master of this castle will let us go."

"Really?"

Junayd shrugged, then turned his head to ask the overseer, "Do you say these things to keep us docile? Or did your lord tell you we could be freed?"

The supervisor used their backs as support while he leaned into them again. He put his elbows on their shoulders, and to Junayd's side glance it looked like the Hungarian's scowl indicated the man thought his intelligence had been insulted.

"My master," he said vehemently, but in low tones. "Is a man of his word. He spoke to me about your possible release, so in his heart, I know he means it."

The taskmaster then stood erect and strolled away. Once the release from his bodily contact left the men, a feeling like freedom rose from the quickly cooling areas to hint that the possibility of a much greater weight could be lifted from their shoulders as well.

Stefan Karolyi went to the spot he had indicated for excavation.

"Well?" Ahmed wanted to know. "Is it true?"

"It seems promising, Kapikulu."

"But," the taskmaster spun around and raised his voice authoritatively. "There is only one way to find out. Dig!"

Junayd sensed that Ahmed felt exactly as he did, and that both of them were caught in a moment of trying to reel in their excitement at the mere possibility of ever being free men again. As he was thinking this, a scrap of motion caught his attention from the corner of his eye. A patchwork collection of men and boys appeared traipsing through the castle's main gate. They carried an array of picks, shovels and stacks of sturdy baskets to cart away the digging debris of broken stones and dirt.

Stefan spoke a strange language to this work gang and had them assemble as a group near the wellhead location.

He came back to talk to the Turks, telling Junayd, "These are Romanian serfs. They are indentured to the land, and as low as you – only, they can go home at night!"

Karolyi howled with laughter as if the captives' misery was about the funniest thing he's ever heard of.

In another moment, he lashed out and grabbed Junayd aggressively by the side of his neck. He dragged the young man to the spot the divining rods had pointed out.

Ahmed followed, and the overseer let loose of the younger man by nearly throwing him to the pavement.

"There," he spat out hatefully. "You slaves pull out the cobblestones, stack them, and start digging. Lord Laszlo and Lady Gretza need that water!"

Trying to hide his hate for Stefan, Ahmed genuflected by Junayd's side. "What now?" he asked.

"We pull up these stones, pile them, then lay out the area for the well – and…"

"And…and, what?"

"We start digging."

˚˚˚˚˚

The afternoon sun entered the court. The stones around them began to reflect the solar heat like an oven.

Junayd stopped and wiped his brow. He and Ahmed had pried up enough paving stones to expose a patch of cliff surface large enough for a small wagon to park over it. The blocks that had been extracted were neatly stacked against the wall of a seldom-used corridor of the court. The Romanian men and lads idly loafed by passing around chunks of bread and a jug of wine.

Stefan Karolyi sat apart, and ate his roast beef with the guards. They took swigs from a large pitcher of ale shared between them.

As Junayd watched, Ahmed came walking back to him. The soldier had just taken a large stone by himself over to the stacking area, and now sweat glistened off of his brow and beard.

"It's too hot, dervish." Ahmed said, wiping his forehead with his upraised forearm.

Junayd laughed. "What do you propose to do about it?"

"This!"

Ahmed lifted the bottom hem of his tunic over his head. He stood there for a moment, boldly naked, and Junayd marvelled at the warrior's body in the full light of day. It was gleaming and bronzed, and all that billowy body hair was slightly dampened and drooped by perspiration.

The Romanians began to hoot and holler.

Stefan stood up, but before he could swallow down the gristle he was chewing on, Ahmed had folded the tunic and wrapped it lengthwise around his waist.

As the soldier tied it in place by the sleeves, he told Junayd with a passing glance, "Now you." Sparkling good humour glinted from his brown eyes.

The dervish hesitated, but for only a moment.

The air on his exposed skin felt cool and refreshing.

He watched the soldier's eyes scan Junayd's own glowing and sweaty physique. He delighted in fixing and securing his tunic around his waist as lingeringly as possible, knowing that Ahmed's gaze was not going to leave his nakedness alone until he did.

Once redressed, both men nodded and bent to pick up a large stone together. They began the long trudge to the stacking pile.

The younger man grunted a little under the shifting weight of the block. "I'll have to teach you some Hungarian."

"Yes, do that dervish. Teach me to call them Giaour[3] to their faces."

"No, Kapikulu. I cannot dig this well by myself, and you need your head still attached to be of any service to me."

Ahmed grunted under his breath as he tried to re-grip the stone a bit. "Why are you suddenly calling me Kapikulu?"

"Why not, soldier? You call me dervish; I call you Kapikulu."

Half a sly smile met Junayd's gaze as he watched Ahmed try and suppress a chuckle.

They swung and set the large block in place on the pile and stood erect taking in big breaths of air. They started to walk back to the clearing for the well. On the way, Ahmed caught Stefan Karolyi tracking the nearly nude form of Junayd with intoxicated eyes.

"How old are you, Dervish?" the professional soldier asked.

"I am twenty-five. And you, Kapikulu?"

"You are coming into the prime of your manhood, and I am old enough to know that at thirty-two I am leaving mine."

"You are hardly getting old…" Junayd suddenly remembered something the soldier had told him. "So, you were twenty-two when Constantinople fell ten years ago?"

"I was twenty-one."

The dervish laughed. "But last night you said you were a mere lad of seventeen. And that you had to fight for a position in the Kapikulu Sipahi."

"Well, I had to fight, that much is true. It was only supposed to be his personal guard and his clan members allowed to follow him into the capital city of Eastern Rome."

"Do you often manipulate details in your stories? I just want to know for future reference."

Ahmed laughed good-naturedly. "Religious man! Soldiers do that, it's because fighters are expected to enhance their exploits, both of conquest and of women, but – as I see you are overly 'sensitive' – I will try to stick to what actually happened."

"But you were there, in Constantinople that day..?"

"That's right. And I was with the Sultan as he entered Hagia Sophia."

Junayd was impressed. "I have heard that Christians have a myth that the priests of that place melted into the walls of the church and will wait there until the time is safe for them to come back."

The soldier scoffed: "I was there. They did not 'melt into the walls.' They fell to the floor, and there they were dispatched by us. Mehmed wanted not one single member of their clergy to survive as he climbed on their altar to pray towards Mecca."

Junayd froze in his tracks. The sun beat down on his head as he realized, "So, I guess the myth is partially true."

"What?" Ahmed stood still; he turned to stand akimbo and scowl. "You hear me? They're all dead – they were all killed in their holy church of wisdom."

"Yes, but instead of their bodies dissolving into the stone-lined walls, it was their blood that sank through its marble floors. Now they will always be there."

˚˚˚˚˚

Later in the afternoon, the sun began to angle into the court from the west. The stones slowly radiated off their stored heat from the sun's long pounding, and encouraged the guards to doze in a shady passage off to the side of the court. It was here that Junayd noticed when Karolyi had gestured to one of the young Romanian men, and then the two of them disappeared through a doorway. The rest of the Romanian men and boys tried to look fully occupied by lounging around in a spread-out group.

The captives bent together to repeat the rock-moving process with a large specimen.

"So," Ahmed asked as they trudged across the courtyard with it. "You never fought before being impressed into the sultan's army?"

"I never even held a sword before being forced to wield one."

A sputtering of Ahmed's lips made it clear he found that hard to comprehend. He explained, "I was reared from a young age to be a fighter. In Izmir I loved to wrestle aggressively with the other boys, even the older ones. All of us got naked and oiled up, and every boy sported a giant boner! Cehennem, if a boy didn't wrestle with sexual excitement, we made fun of him and said he was some sort of girl."

Junayd laughed. "Kapikulu, you like to talk of sexual matters a lot, don’t you?"

"Junayd, I not only talk sex, I fuck sex."

They stacked their stone, and both leaned on it a moment to catch their breath.

Ahmed went on with an amazed realization. "Don’t tell me you are a prude. One of those types of religious men who claim their bowels are all clamped up for God – a constipated zealot and sex-hater!"

Junayd smiled cryptically, straightened up and began to walk back. He quickly threw one hand in the air, saying, "I better not say too much. I was warned to stay away from you, for my own good." He spun around with a childish smirk spreading his lips and continued to walk backwards. His taunt worked, for Ahmed started walking too, but his hands were on his hips.

"Just like a girl to throw my words back in my face." The solider attempted to shake his head, but immediately added, "I've never been a religious nut myself, so you will have to forgive my ignorance on your order, oh learnèd one."

Junayd chuckled to himself to see the walking man make an elaborate, but half-hearted bow. He turned around, went to the last stone they had to move, and waited for his compatriot to stroll up.

As the two men bent to grip the final stone, Junayd grabbed ahold but locked his stare onto the burly man.

"You don’t know the first thing about my order, do you?"

They lifted in unison with hearty grunts. And Junayd enjoyed the puzzled expression his question brought to the warrior's features, for obviously he was seriously thinking about it.

"No, dervish. Are you saying something to me here that I should know?"

Junayd felt his own smile grow large. "I mean, my order is about unbridled, ecstatic expression. We shut off no paths that will take us to the joys of communication with the Divine. That's what I mean."

"So, you do have sex," Ahmed chuckled. "Why didn't you just say so?!"

They shuffled along for a few paces in silence.

Ahmed asked, "Is your order the spinning or the howling kind?"

"Oh! So you have heard of two of our sects?! I am Mevlevi. We are the more silent and contemplative kind.

"The spinners. Do you spin?"

"I am not privileged enough to 'spin' yet. Someday I hope to return to my studies."

Junayd watched as this companion was suddenly struck by some sad moment of insight.

"I'm sorry. You are a student. I forget that your studies were interrupted by outside forces. Your path has been much different than mine."

"It's all right, Ahmed."

They arrived at the stack, and set the stone down. Again, both men paused, but this time they inspected each other for a compassionate moment. Feeling a bit cornered, it was Junayd who again broke away first.

Ahmed quickly followed this time, and feeling his presence right next to him, Junayd turned to face him. "Do you know why Dervish rotate with one hand turned upwards, and one facing down?" He did a graceful half-turn for Ahmed's delight. Junayd knew he was delighted, for the burly man grinned and shook his head.

"We are channelling God's energy. The open palm receives it from the higher source, and this Divine power uses our human motions to transform itself into flesh."

"And with the other hand?"

"Ah, the other hand is palm down so that the Divine Spirit, once humanized, can flow into the earth for all men to tap into and use."

They arrived back at the fully cleared area.

"That's beautiful, dervish. I had no idea the 'rotating' had so much significance."

"Yes. A man of God must believe all things are imbued with significance, even our forced captivity."

Their eyes drifted over to a spot of motion. Stefan Karolyi was roughly compelling someone by the neck out into the courtyard; Junayd instantly recognized it was the young man the supervisor had disappeared with earlier. The Hungarian was hiking his trousers with his free hand and looked drunker than ever. He immediately spoke fervidly to the rest of the crew and gestured towards the Turks.

Two of the Romanian men languorously rose, stretched and picked up digging implements. They walked over and placed them in Ahmed and Junayd's hands.

Ahmed wasted no time, and with this pick scrapped out a circle large enough for two grown men to comfortably swing axe handles in. Soon the younger man started scrapping from the other end so they could meet at the completed loop.

While the soldier gouged the rock face, he partook in some hopeful bluster, and Junayd let him.

"Those poor bastard Romanians! Think of the humiliation of being colonized by the likes of those currish Huns."

"Oh, you have sympathy for them, do you?"

"I do, but it doesn't matter. Soon, when Mehmed and his army get here, they will both be our slaves. He'll rescue us!"

"So, for the Romanians it will be the same, one way or another."

"No! Who wouldn't rather be 'under a Turk?!" Ahmed laughed heartily.

When the two men met at the joint of the completed outline, they both stood. Ahmed bit his lower lip in concentration and gestured for the dervish to stand back a little. To Junayd's gaze, the soldier's beard glowed most attractively as it was moistened by his sweat and determination.

The burly man raised his pick high in the air to strike the first blow, but he paused.

Licking his lips, Ahmed turned his wicked sparkle on Junayd. "Once we take over, the first slave I'll claim is that Lady So-and-So. Ah yes, dervish, she'll be the happiest Christian slave anywhere in Hungary – full and fat on my rich cream."

His pick tine ripped the air like a miniature thunderbolt, and instantly chimed all around the courtyard as if cracking ice from a mountaintop.

The first blow of the well had been struck.

"Here's to a quick time of it." And Junayd drove the second blow home to join the still reverberating echo of his companion's strike. In his heart he wanted to hold some hope as well, yet that was more difficult to him than digging this well, or a hundred more like it. But, he liked Ahmed, and he vowed to keep his spirits high and not be anymore a burden to that man than he had to be.

He rested on his pick a moment, and relished it when Ahmed did the same and smiled warmly at him.

"Two blows down," the dervish said, returning the other man's grin. "Now, there's just a few more to go."