Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 5. Chapter 5: Stay Away from Me

Chapter 5: Stay Away from Me

The rhythm of the castle had settled down. Their masters and guests had been served dinner in the Knights Hall, and now in the late afternoon the servants could slacken their pace and think of feeding themselves.

In their cell, the Turkish prisoners had been unshackled and were free to wander about their confines.

The burly man cast his eyes up.

The curved barrel vault of the chamber was high overhead, and at the top near the far wall was an opening. This gap, that served as both vent and window, was barred and about the height of four handbreadths tall. The width was only equal to two hands, if laid flat and touching flanks.

One end of the cell was strewn with straw. There was a covered pot to make soil in, and next to it, an open wooden bucket with dipper. He lifted it and smelled the clear liquid inside. He tasted it carefully, then sank the ladle to soak it full.

"Water!" he told his companion, and extracted a big scoop. He drank it deep and felt little rivulets of moisture course down the sides of his beard to cool his neck and chest.

"Ah!" The professional soldier smacked satisfied lips.

He gestured with slumped shoulders and an invitation to drink by holding out the dripping ladle. He wasn't too sure about this man who occupied the cell with him. The younger captive was squatting with folded arms and his back against the wall. To the soldier's questioning eyes, he saw only a faint smile and heard an indistinct word like 'good.'

The big man thought to himself, 'Great. A moody mope – just what I need…' He decided to refill the dipper and be generous. He walked it over personally to the sullen one, and was curious to see if any gratitude would be coming his way for the effort.

When he got there, he held the over-spilling ladle eye level with the other's face. Annoyed by the lack of reaction, he jostled it a little, sloshing out some content and making the younger man glance up to him. The soldier said, "Ahmed."

"What?" His companion scowled at him.

"I said, my name is Ahmed. Now drink, and tell me your name too."

The younger man took the ladle. Before he sipped, he said without inflection, "Junayd."

"Junayd. That's a fancy name."

The younger man stood. "That's the assigned name from my community. I honestly do not remember my old one."

Ahmed took the dipper, and escorted it back to the water barrel.

He dropped it in and then turned with hands going to his waist. In another moment, his right fingers found their way up to stroke his beard contemplatively. Doubt dripped from his tone as he asked, "Your community?"

"Yes. I am a dervish."

'Oh Lord,' Ahmed thought. 'A fanatic!' As far as the soldier knew, they were some form of Sufi monks who shunned outside activities to read, sing, and feel 'spiritual' – whatever that would feel like.

Junayd placed his hands behind him and leaned his upper back against the stone wall.

"Where are you from, dervish?"

"Konya."

"Konya!" the soldier snorted. "Isn't that the backwater where your saint died?" His left hand rose to point shameless at Junayd with a wagging index finger.

"Yes. It is where Rumi lived, died and is buried."

"Right…" Ahmed began tapping his forehead rhythmically. A good-natured grin spread across his lisp. "Rumi. Now I remember; that's his name."

"Yes. He is laid to rest in a chapel attached to the mosque, and next to his beloved Shams and Celebi." A rising corner of his mouth formed the sly framework for his next question to slip out. "And what centre-of-the-world place are you from, soldier?"

"Izmir, by the sea!" Ahmed's voice shone bright and clear; his whole being smiled. "Aman Allahim,[1] please let me see her blue waters again. Let me walk the beaches of Izmir with my face to the western breeze. And Lord, please do not let me die on the mountains of this God-forsaken land."

Junayd jumped to his feet.

There was a clinking sound approaching from down the corridor. It echoed eerily, like the pinging of metal striking crystalline stone. Both men moved back to the centre of the cell and listened in hushed stillness.

Along with the clatter, a gruff voice emerged singing a crude tune. The melody grew louder and louder, and along with it so did the prisoners' apprehension. Soon Stefan Karolyi, their supervisor appeared. He was still 'singing,' but picking at his teeth at the same time with a thick splinter of wood.

Ahmed grew hot with dislike for 'the Christian dog,' but his flash of temper soon melted, for concurrent with the sight of the overseer, was a smell. The unmistakably good smell of hot food.

Two dark-haired boys appeared from behind Stefan's wake. Each held a medium-sized wooden bowl.

"Back! Stand back, Turks." The turnkey belched, and while one hand indolently scratched at his belly, the other held up an iron ring for him to squint at. On it clunked half a dozen rusty keys.

Ahmed scented the air in front of him, for there was a nasty fermented stench edging the good flavours of the food. He soon realized it was coming from Stefan, for the man must like his ale.

In another moment, he heard Junayd tell him in hushed but adamant tones, "He wants us to stay here. I'm hungry, so don’t move."

"No problem with that. I'm just as hungry as you, you know. If not more so!"

In another minute, the door was unlocked and the reluctant boys ushered in.

Ahmed had to smile to himself as the dishevelled little tykes extended the bowls to the men with eyes as big as saucers, and a general attitude akin to them attempting to feed crocodiles. Apparently news of the Turk's proclivities for castrating little Christian boys had penetrated even to the scullery jacks of the deepest, darkest kitchens of this remote military outpost.

The men cupped the warm treen basins, and watched the boys flee the cell.

Stefan closed the iron gate, and after a moment – where he simply indulged in another belly rub – he belched. He walked away shaking his head in apparent disappoint for the sorry lot of slaves he had been given charge over.

The Turks pulled up the half-submerged wooden spoons and tasted.

Barley. It was boiled and plain, but about the best thing the men could have hoped for.

They went to the straw, sat side-by-side, and scooped greedy mouthfuls into their faces.

"So, dervish…" Ahmed wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wound up rubbing some barley juice into his chin hair. "How did a religious man come to be in Sultan Mehmet's army?"

"Um…" Junayd cleared his throat. "My father owed a debt, and I was impressed to clear him of it."

"Impressed, you mean devsirme?![2] That usually only happens to non-Muslims."

"Well, apparently the military authorities are not very impressed with dervishes, unless they can be used to pad out the army."

"Hmm. I never thought about it."

Ahmed could feel Junayd scanning him with about the first interest the younger man had ever shown in him. This handsome man was not skinny, nor was he brawny like a warrior. He had features that bespoke of a natural fearless and quizzical outlook. It appeared to be a devil-may-care disregard for authority and the imposition of being forced to agree with the majority simply for expedience's sake. His hair was light brown, which he wore to about the lowest level of his ears. It was glossy and bobbed with a slight wave to it whenever his glances turned on or away from Ahmed. The younger man was perhaps in his early twenties, and youth still clung to him and his mannerism like excitement does to a happy man. His face was blessed with high cheekbones, a peachy colour riding them, and light brown eyes that sparkled from beneath handsome and full brows.

"And you?" Junayd asked. "How did you get into the Sultan's army?"

"Me?! I'm a Kapikulu Sipahis,[3] through and through! A man, his horse and his weapon – that's me."

"Kapikulu – Cavalrymen of the Porte, right?"

Ahmed nearly dropped his spoon. "You know Persian as well?"

"Rumi wrote in Farsi, so yes I know Sipahis means cavalryman."

"Oh. Do you know what the Porte refers to?"

"No, I do not."

"The gate of the Sultan's palace, from what they used to be called in old Latin times. It's our duty to die to the last man to protect it, if need be. Yes, a professional soldier wielding sword or lance for Fatih Mehmed,[4] wherever his banner goes, even to the cursed frontier wasteland of Hungary."

Junayd ate with relish and let his spoon gesture to Ahmed. "Yes, but how did you get into it?"

"I fought my way in! Ten years ago, when our Sultan was laying siege to Christian Constantinople, I was a boy of seventeen. I showed my desire to kill, or die trying."

"Not me, Sipahis. I was impressed into service, against my will, so I have no opinion on the 'glory' of blood and steel, or swords and fighting for that matter."

"But you were taken on the field of battle, just as I was."

"I was taken behind the Turkish lines, and I was not wielding a sword."

"Ah," Ahmed glowered and chuckled. "You were in the diplomatic corp."

"That's right. I was an instructor at the Enderun,[5] the palace institution of learning."

"Learning for slave boys?"

"True."

Ahmed leaned in closer. "Well, is the rest true then as well..?"

"What part do you mean?"

"That these kidnapped Christian boys are neutered as a matter of course?"

"Oh, yes. That is the system. Boys from ages seven to twelve arrive at the school, are isolated for a time, castrated and then allowed to convalesce with the aid of an older 'big brother.' The older boy is supposed to speak the boy's language, and can nurse him back to health. The big brother is supposed to proselytize on how generous and kind their overseers are, and how much comfort Islam can be, if they surrender to it and revoke Christ."

Ahmed ate and rocked his head in disgust. "Poor bastards… Imagine it! To be a scared little boy, ripped away from your mother's arms, surrounded by your captors, painfully robbed of any chance of manhood and the blessings of offspring by the cruel bite of Turkish steel on your most tender part. And why? So he can be reared again like an infant, and have that done just so he's a nameless, interchangeable cog in the vast Ottoman administrative bureaucracy."

"You, soldier, can be quite a descriptive speaker."

Ahmed, who had become lost and withdrawn into his thoughts, glanced over to the dervish. He saw that winsome younger man smile, and Ahmed had to fight down the impulse to smack it off of him. He did not know this person; the soldier in him did not know when this other smiled to ridicule or grinned to express admiration. Right at that moment, Ahmed was inclined to believe the acceleration of his heartbeat was there to belie the fact that Junayd was deriding him.

He lifted his spoon, and slowly took a sullen bite. Then while chewing, he asked in a neutral tone, "How came you to speak their language?"

"Hungarian?"

"Um."

"In the diplomatic corps we are taught all the tongues of the frontiers peoples. I learned Arabic, Bedouin, and some Russian – but the Hungarian I acquired on my own."

"How so?"

"Those young men I told you about, the ones who play nursemaid and persuader for the captured boys to adjust to their situation..?"

Ahmed nodded.

"Well, I was one such person. I nursed a slender youth with yellow hair and blue eyes, and I worried greatly about his constitution after 'the procedure.' So I rustled up the best extra food I could afford, for he liked sweets, and I gave him all my spare time just to sit and talk with him. The baklava helped dry his boyish tears better than my words of 'comfort' and surrender ever could. I taught him Turkish, and in exchange, he taught me Hungarian."

Ahmed tilted his head back and bayed with a lascivious air. He sputtered through his laughter, "Ah, ah, dervish. Tell the truth now! I bet it was your Turkish cock that taught his Christian backside some things in exchange for that baklava!"

Junayd let his spoon settle amongst his slowly cooling barley grains. He slowly shook his head. "With respect, soldier – you misunderstand."

Ahmed almost could not believe the fleeting level of hurt he saw drift across Junayd's face. It was momentary, but profound. "What!" he asked.

The dervish spoke with self-control and quiet modulation. "It's just, Ahmed, that the situation of that boy – of all those boys – is one very similar to ours. I simply think we should remember that."

Ahmed felt rebuke down to this soul. He immediately tried to shrug off that discomfort as just one of the many useless emotions to a dedicated soldier. A passing notion also crept into his head that the tactics of making a man feel guilt about something, about anything, is not very manly at all.

Nevertheless, he shook his head slowly. "I agree, as I said earlier. Pitiable bastards: emasculated for the state, and enslaved simply because they were unlucky enough to be born Christian, but then even that is taken from them, and they are forced to convert to Islam."

Ahmed elbowed Junayd, and when the dervish glanced over, he gestured to the younger man's bowl to remind him to eat. He continued speaking, but in a more conversational tone. "So tell me, what does your holy book have to say about slavery? Hmmm, Junayd?"

"If I remember one passage, it goes: 'For truly, We have created man to toil and struggle, and what analogy will explain how steep the path to surrender is – it is the freeing of one in slavery.'"

"Dervish, that is too complicated for me to grasp."

"It means that the difficulty in mankind freeing all of her slaves is like that of God struggling to free mankind of our ignorance. But, it is the noblest path one can take."

"So, God wants us to free our slaves?"

"Yes. Many passages in the Holy Quran make atonement for a sin, or for a slight against our fellow man, as the freeing of the sinner's human chattel. We must only see that action as very pleasing to the Lord, and after all, slavery is man's doing. It was not ordained by God, and thus it is a sin itself that it exists at all. At least, that is how I interpret the passages that mention it."

"Oh."

"Slavery is wrong, and arguably the worst form of it is for a Christian to own a Christian, or a Muslim to own a Muslim.

"I have heard these Huns do not force Turkish prisoners to bow down to their cross. I hope the lord of this place doesn't try and do that to me."

Junayd chuckled while resuming to feed himself. Between mouthfuls, he asked, "And what do you know of their faith anyway?"

Ahmed let his expression go blank. He felt all the tension leave his face. He thought about it for a moment. "I know no prophet of God – as He was – would let the Romans whip and debase him in public. I know no prophet of God would let himself be crucified. Somehow their legends grew too far apart from the real Eesa."[6]

The professional soldier glanced over, and again saw a lingering shadow on Junayd's face. He swallowed down his ire, because he thought he spied on the dervish's sneer a grudging admiration that Ahmed was brighter than he looked. The Sipahi hated feeling belittled, or worse yet, being condescended to. Again, that was a rather womanly tactic to use against a man like Ahmed, he thought.

To break the discomfort, the professional soldier roughly grabbed his crotch and shook it long and hard until Junayd was watching his actions. He arched his back a bit, and continued his motions with even more vehemence. His lips took on a scowl for the younger man, and he said hatefully, "I know these Christian sluts cannot get enough of Turkish cock. At this rate, half the bastard babies in this land will have sprung from deeply planted Ottoman seed. Damn dervish, I could go for one of their mouths on my member right now!"

Ahmed forced a laugh, and then leered with a contemptuous sputter from his mouth as Junayd refused to play along.

There was something in the young man's frank gaze upon him that suddenly made him feel sad. As he unhanded his crotch and let his body go limp again, he felt his mood darken. He stared down into his nearly empty wooden bowl.

"I have killed many men, dervish. Do you think bad of me for that?"

Junayd paused too. To Ahmed's eyes it looked almost like the religious ascetic inspection of him was a mocking one, but maybe he adjudged it wrongly.

Finally Junayd said, "I do not think I am in a position to criticize anyone, with the exception of one – myself."

Ahmed was crestfallen, that and annoyed. He went back and scraped up the last of his barley. As he was about to shove it in his mouth, he mumbled into the spoon, "He cannot even be honest…"

"What's that you say?"

Chewing, Ahmed attempted a grin. He swallowed quickly and blurted out, "I say, Konya – what a haystack town. Nobody ever willingly goes to Konya. Izmir is a fine city – lots to do and sights to see, lots of women to visit and leave your seed with."

Ahmed saw the fair skin of his companion redden. 'Give me a break,' he thought. 'A religious virgin, Aman Allahim!' The motion of setting his now-empty bowl down on the straw by his side instilled a desire in him to change the subject. "I may not be a man of God, but in Fatih Mehmed I have supreme faith. His armies will soon come and crush this land. Soon, I know it, and then you and I will be free."

Into Junayd's sullen silence, Ahmed returned his critical gaze. That sneer which he interpreted as condescending was back on the younger man's handsome face.

It instantly made the professional soldier angry.

He swallowed his temper, and slowly rose to his feet.

Ahmed walked to the farthest reach of the cell from the dervish. He placed his upper back against the stone wall. The cold from it bit his flesh as he allowed himself to slide down until he was sitting on the floor.

In icy tones, he told Junayd, "You, dervish, are too much like a withering and critical female to make good company for a man like me. I need simple, manly honesty, so you hear me now; stay away from me. That's the only way you can stay on my good side. The only way."