[NOTE: Fairly minimal "action" in this first part of an historical piece. Mostly scene-setting. Stay tuned.]
A dusting of snow had already fallen on the mountaintops above Sacha's village when the Sultan's men came to collect the boy-tax.
Since the 14th century, the Ottoman Empire had manned its standing army -- elite troops called Janissaries -- with slaves gathered through the boy-tax. A Janissary's only loyalty was to the Sultan; his only job to be trained from boyhood as a warrior and then fight with unstoppable ferocity. And for 200 years, these Janissaries had been drawn from the conquered Christian territories of Greece and the Balkans. In earlier times the villagers had tried to hide their sons when the tax collectors came, but the Sultan's local bureaucrats kept good records of the boys living in each village, and tax evaders risked the harshest punishment. And when they realized what it meant to be a Janissary, few families were inclined to risk death to shield their sons.
The year was 1618, and it had been 5 years since the tax collectors' last visit to this rugged area of southwestern Bosnia. As word of their arrival quickly spread from villages lower in the valley, families with eligible boys prepared themselves for the selection process, some praying to the Holy Virgin Mother that their son be spared... others secretly (or even openly) hoping that theirs be taken. Sacha's family understood that he would likely be selected, accepting this knowledge with the unemotional fatalism often found in rural peasants.
Only two soldiers entered the village, but a squad of others were camped not far away, along with more than a dozen boys -- all between the ages of 9 and 14 -- who had been taken from villages further down-valley.
People had told Sacha, for almost as long as he could remember, that he would surely be chosen when the tax collectors returned, and he accepted this presumed fate with surprising optimism. Sacha was a dreamer. His ambitions extended far beyond this mountain valley, though he had never ventured outside its confines in all of his 11 years.
Sacha spent countless hours in conversation with his best friend, 12-year-old Havel, speculating about the outside world and about their future lives. But Havel was not nearly so curious about the world. His fate would be to raise a family and scratch out a living here in the village. Unlike Sacha, he was exempt from the tax, because his older brother had been taken 5 years previously. The sultans, in their wisdom, had long ago ordained that the tax collectors could not take more than one son from any family, nor would they take a family's only son.
The village was so insignificant that it did not even have a name, and only four of its boys were eligible for selection. Of those eligible, village gossip had eliminated all but Sacha as acceptable Janissaries. Janko was a sturdy lad of 13, but his features were unusually plain... some would say ugly... and everyone seemed to agree that the tax collectors desired comely youths. Sacha's cousin, Jozef, walked with an obvious limp, one leg shorter than the other. Little Stephan, at 9 years old, met all the physical qualifications for selection, but he spoke with a stutter -- it sometimes took an eternity for him to utter a complete sentence.
Nearly every villager milled around outside the local headman's hut as the two soldiers inside called the boys in one at a time to be interviewed and examined. Sacha stood at the door with Havel at his side. Sacha drew comfort from his friend's closeness, but he was too distracted to talk. His heart was thumping in his chest... a combination of excitement, fear, and expectation. He would be leaving everything and everybody he knew, likely never to return. But everyone said he would have a far better life as a Janissary than could ever be attained by a rural Bosnian peasant. True, he would be a slave. But a slave of the Sultan and far more privileged than most of the Empire's free men. As a Janissary he would be paid a stipend from the Sultan's treasury and would receive good food and clothing. And upon reaching the age of 45, he would leave the army and become an administrative official of the Empire -- perhaps even a wealthy and powerful governor.
None of the innumerable boys who had been taken from the valley over the past 150 years had ever come back home -- at least not in peoples' collective memory. But the itinerant storytellers who showed up at the valley's twice-yearly trading fairs often recounted legendary tales of men who had returned to their villages with cartloads of lavish gifts from the great city of Istanbul and with accounts of glorious worldly adventures. Sacha told himself that he would do likewise some day.
"Sacha, son of Kostek" boomed a voice from inside the hut as the homely Janko walked out the door, beaming with a broad smile of yellow snaggled teeth.
"I was rejected!" he announced with glee.
As Sacha entered the dim room, he was beckoned to stand before the two handsome soldiers, who were seated on a bench beside the hearth. The men were themselves Janissaries... a sergeant who appeared to be in his early 30s, sporting a bushy mustache, and a younger clean-shaven corporal. They both spoke the Bosnian dialect as the language of their childhoods... though with accents that suggested origins far from this valley. When speaking to each other, however, the soldiers spoke in the Turkish language, which none of the villagers understood. Like Sacha, the men had straw-colored hair and blue eyes, so unlike the dark-haired and dark-eyed Turks.
In Turkish: "Now this is more like it! He's as pretty a boy as we've yet run across on this trip," said the corporal.
In Turkish: "Quite a step up from that last one! I just hope he's not as dim as that first little kid," replied the sergeant.
They put Sacha at ease with a few minutes of small talk, asking the boy about the harvest that year and hearing his account of the good weather and plentiful game that had kept the villagers' bellies full for the past few months. This exchange was sufficient to determine that the boy was refreshingly bright and personable.
"Now, take off your shirt, boy," said the sergeant, "and let's see whether that good food has filled you out any."
Sacha pulled off the rough woolen garment -- the only shirt he owned -- which had been cleaned and mended by his mother the previous night for this occasion. The man felt the wiry muscles of Sacha's arms and ran a hand over his back and chest.
In Turkish: "I'm liking this lad more all the time!" In Bosnian: "Alright, drop your trousers, boy. We'll see what you look like down there."
Sacha blushed. Though he was accustomed to being seen naked by other boys at the swimming hole of the nearby creek, these were men... strangers. And nobody -- except for Havel -- had ever really examined his private parts. But not wishing to anger the soldiers, he hastened to untie the length of rope around his waist and let the pants fall to his ankles.
"Take your hands away from the front, boy. Step closer and stand between us."
A glance, with raised eyebrows of approval, was exchanged between the soldiers. The heat in Sacha's blushing face burned even brighter as the sergeant began fondling the orbs in his loose-hanging ball sack, while the younger soldier ran a hand over the boy's smooth buttocks.
In Turkish: "The records say he's 11 years, but he has the gonads of an older boy." In Bosnian: "What's your age, boy?"
"I think it is 11, sir," answered Sacha timidly.
In Turkish: "Look how his cock has lengthened. A randy lad, this one is. Get him hard, and let's see how his horn looks," said the corporal as his hand continued to caress the boy's slender rounded butt.
The sergeant's fingertips gently retracted the hood of flesh at the tip of Sacha's penis to reveal a plump purplish-red glans. Then he slid the sensitive skin back and forth a few times. Despite Sacha's embarrassment, his body shuddered with familiar pleasure as the soldier's fingers quickly produced a rigid erection... a 4-inch rod of fine proportions. The men looked at each other and grinned.
In Turkish: "He's a vision of perfection; eh, Sergeant? I once dreamt that I had attained Paradise after a martyr's death, but the boys given to me by Allah as attendants were not as beautiful as this one!"
In Turkish: "Aye, Corporal. He's a charmer, alright. I'd seduce him here and now if not for the rules. Maybe I'll be able to sweet-talk him into sharing my bed-roll tonight... if the commander doesn't get to him first." In Bosnian: "Can you make the white seed spurt from your cock yet, boy?"
"Oh, no sir! That would be a sin against God!" Sacha gasped.
The two Janissaries both burst out laughing, to Sacha's surprise and alarm.
Sacha was certainly not naive. He had witnessed older boys boldly masturbating in full view of younger lads down at the swimming hole. But he was astounded that these two grown men would talk about such a thing. The priest who traveled the valley hearing confessions had cautioned him several times that it was a sin to intentionally draw forth one's manly seed. (Sacha hadn't deemed it an item worthy of holy confession to disclose the many times he had manipulated his penis, imitating the older boys, since no "sinful" seed ever emerged from his penis when he gave himself the special feeling.)
"I see... well, do you ever play with other boys' cocks in the manner that I was handling yours?"
Sacha just stood there in stunned silence, staring down at his feet... and at the erect penis that stood up from his crotch. Racing through his mind were thoughts of the times he and Havel snuck into the woods, pulled off their trousers, and gave each other's dicks the tingling pleasure-feelings, using their fingers and lips and tongues. He nodded his head in silent shame, realizing that this activity must have been a sin as well, even though the priest had never mentioned it.
Again the men laughed, slapping their knees with delight at the guilty expression on Sacha's face. Sacha didn't know, but would soon learn, that Janissaries were forbidden to marry... forbidden to have relations with any women except for those they raped when pillaging enemy territory. It was with army comrades that they relieved their lust or expressed their romantic affection. And sexual companionship with an attractive young cadet was a special treat to be cultivated and savored.
In Turkish: "He'll be quite the favorite in the barracks!" In Bosnian: "Hey, kid! Don't be ashamed; you're a fine lad. Now put your feet up here on the bench, one at a time, and let's see if they'll hold up to a lifetime of marching."
When the interviews of the boys had ended, the predictions were correct -- only Sacha would be taken. The soldiers gave him just a few minutes to say goodbye. When Sacha's teary-eyed mother handed him the family's best coat and some boots for his bare feet, the sergeant took them and gave them back to her.
"Save them for the family, Mother," he said, kindly. "He'll need nothing but the clothes on his back... and even those will be replaced by a new uniform this very evening."
With a weird swirl of feelings in his heart, and a lump in his throat, Sacha kissed his family members on each cheek and was thus kissed by them in return -- his parents, his older sister, the two younger brothers who would now be exempt from the tax, the toddler who was oblivious to what was happening around her.... And finally his eyes sought out Havel, who had hung back behind the crowd of villagers who gathered around to say farewell. Sacha pushed past the well-wishers to Havel and threw his arms around the 12-year-old. Only then did his tears begin to flow. The two boys hugged... hugged so tightly it hurt. And their lips met in a long, tender kiss, as tears rolled down both their faces. This was the first time Sacha had kissed someone on the mouth, other than his parents, and he didn't care who saw it.
"I'll miss you so much, Havel...."
"Sacha.... Oh, Sacha; don't forget me, dearest friend. Save a place for me in you heart, as I will keep you always in mine."
"Time to go!" said the sergeant at last, after watching the two boys embrace for a full minute longer than he had planned to. And turning to the village headman, he said "Your tax has been paid. May Allah, the merciful and compassionate, grant your village prosperity."
The three walked out of the village in mid-afternoon along the rough dirt track that meandered through the valley. In keeping with a decision he had reached some time ago, Sacha never once looked back.
"Where are we going, sirs?" he said after they had walked a while in silence.
"Your first lesson in being a Janissary is that you do not talk while on the march. You will know the destination either when your superior tells you, or when you get there," said the sergeant in a patient voice.
As it turned out, the march was not at all far, even for a barefooted 11-year-old. After about 5 miles' walk down-valley, at the midpoint between Sacha's former home and two neighboring villages, they came to the encampment. Ten Janissaries were variously lounging, puttering around the camp, or supervising 14 youths who were gathering firewood for a bonfire. Each of the youths wore identical uniforms consisting of a colorful shirt and baggy Turkish-style trousers.
A soldier called out cheerfully in Turkish as Sacha entered the village. "Ahmad! Waliq! Only one catch from today's hunting, eh? Well, he looks to be a worthy prize."
The sergeant directed Sacha over to the side of the encampment where there was a tent set up. An iron pot was heating over a small campfire, and a middle-aged man with short-cropped thinning hair was emerging from the tent.
"Sergeant Ahmad, do you have your report?" said the older man sternly, in Turkish.
"Yes sir, Commander," he replied, handing over a sheaf of papers.
Sacha hung back, quiet and observant, as the men spoke in a language he did not understand. Several times, the older man looked over at Sacha, and the last time a half-smile creased his face and he winked at the boy. His stern demeanor returned immediately, however, as he continued to question the sergeant.
Finally, the commander returned to his tent, and the sergeant directed Sacha to sit in a grove of trees with two other boys he hadn't noticed before. Both wore the same simple peasant garments as Sacha, and he recognized them as residents of the village that was nearest his own. As he sat down with them and they compared stories of their interviews with the tax collectors, another group was approaching the camp... two more soldiers accompanying three familiar boys from the other of the three neighboring villages. He was heartened to see that one was his cousin Daniil, the 9-year-old son of Sacha's mother's brother. Daniil had a tired look of sadness on his face. His eyes were puffy and red, as if he had been crying recently. But when he recognized Sacha, the small boy's face brightened, and he ran up to his cousin and hugged him. Now all six of the newly-acquired slaves spoke excitedly about the events of this momentous day.
As the sun dipped from sight, a chill began intruding on the pleasant warmth of the late-September day. Small campfires were being lit as it got progressively darker... and then the soldiers lit the bonfire that had been stacked up in an area well separated from the trees.
"Come on, lads," called a soldier. "Time for Commander Mustafa to perform the naming ceremony."
The newcomers were led over to the bonfire. All the other boys, as well as all the soldiers, gathered around to watch and listen. Again the middle-age commander emerged from his tent.
"Welcome, lads," he said in a firm, loud voice, speaking fluently in Bosnian. "This is the first day of your new lives, and we have a ritual to mark the occasion. On this bonfire you will cast the remnants of your old lives, and you will stand before this band of Janissaries as naked and empty-handed as when you were born as helpless babes. As your recruiting sergeant calls out your name, come before me to be renamed... and reborn. Now, throw your clothing onto the fire, along with any possession you may have brought from your old life."
The six boys glanced at each other, and then slowly began to comply, flinging shirts and pants onto the blaze. Standing there naked, they were well aware that the eyes of men and boys were focused upon them. They were checking each other, too, and Sacha glanced curiously at the variety of genitals on display.... Lech was the oldest of them and had a good-sized dick and low-hanging balls... even a bit of hair. Little Daniil had a penis the size of Sacha's little finger and a tiny ball sack that was pulled up tight beneath it. They all stood close to the crackling fire for warmth in the chilly night air.
A soldier called out "Radek, son of Petr."
The boy looked around cautiously, then stepped toward the commander.
"You henceforth will be Rafiq. It means 'good friend'. Welcome to the Corps, my son. Receive your uniform from the corporal over there." And the commander grasped the boy by his shoulders and kissed him on each cheek.
A cheer went up from the onlookers, with shouts of "welcome, Rafiq!" and "congratulations!"
A soldier holding a large book entered the boy's new name as the commander called it out. Another soldier had gathered together, from bundles on an ox cart, a small pile of clothing in the boy's approximate size and handed it to the naked lad. The boy dressed quickly, with a little help from some of the boys as to garments with which he was unfamiliar.
"Lech, son of Milos," called out a sergeant.
"You will be Latif. It means 'one who is kind'. Welcome, my son. You are now a Janissary." He kissed the boy, and again a cheer went up.
"Daniil, son of Rajko."
"Welcome to your new family, little one. You will be safe and well cared-for with us. And you will grow to be a mighty warrior in the coming years. From this moment, your name will be Damir, which means 'blessed'." And after kissing the boy's cheeks, Mustafa hugged the lad briefly.
"Sacha, son of Kostek," called out Sergeant Ahmad, just as he had in the village earlier that day.
"Ah... Sacha..." said the commander wistfully, as his eyes glanced downward to take in the beauty of the boy's body. "Your naming was easy. You will be Salim, which means 'flawless'. Welcome, my son." The commander's lips lingered for a moment on Sacha's cheek as the man kissed him.
Sacha's pile of clothes consisted of pants and shirt, a fine warm cloak worthy of a prosperous merchant, and two items of a soft fabric the likes of which Sacha... no, Salim... had never felt. There were also hobnail boots and two pairs of socks.
"Those are undergarments of cotton," said a down-valley boy who was dressed in the uniform. "You put them on before the pants and shirt. Let me help you on with the boots, if you wish. They will feel strange and tight, if you are like the rest of us."
The naming ceremony ended as Salim, with the other boy's help, had just finished jamming his wide, callused feet into the totally foreign boots. The six new cadets stood before Commander Mustafa.
"Now that you are Janissaries, there will be much for you to learn. Some of it you will learn in the classroom, where you will be taught to read and write, and to speak in Turkish and other languages of the Empire. The second phase of your education will be in the ways of combat, and the older lads among you will begin those lessons much sooner than the youngest ones.
"Remember always that you are soldiers, and moreover you are slaves. As such, you must be doubly obedient to those who are your superiors. Disobedience will always be punished. Persistent disobedience will be punish very harshly.
"I understand that you are all Christians, and you will not be compelled to give up your beliefs. But you will never become a true Janissary until you submit to Allah and become a believer in Islam. As an infidel, you will always be given the most menial tasks. And when grow to manhood, you may find that your superiors think your talents are best suited to manning an oar in a galley. Think it over, but realize that every man in this camp was once a Christian boy just like you, and each is now a Muslim.
"As you travel about the Empire in the coming years, you will be respected by most people, and you will be feared by the some. We fight hard and show no mercy to the enemies of the Sultan, but we are always merciful and courteous to the Sultan's loyal subjects.
"You will live clean lives. That means no alcohol... ever. No tobacco. And no sexual relations with women... ever. Not with the giggling village girls; not with the lonely widows; and not with the pox-afflicted whores who will try to tempt you every time you enter a town or city.
"The older boys among you may have already dipped your horns into honey..." He paused as some of men and youths laughed... "but your days of honey-dipping are over. This is a unbreakable law that we all must live by. The good news is that whenever your urge gets powerful -- and I guarantee that it will -- there will be no priests running around to tell you that the pleasure a stroking hand is a sin.
"And you will quickly learn that you have comrades who feel the same urges. You are free to help each other attain relief, so long as it does not interfere with discipline. That means no fighting over petty jealousies. And no bullying to force a comrade to perform a sexual service... a refusal is to be taken as the final word. And a superior will never order a soldier or cadet into his bed. To do so is a severe violation, and it will be dealt with severely.
"That is all. Now, let us go to the cooking fire and take our evening meal."
As Salim followed the more experienced boys over to the mess area. He picked up a metal plate that was soon filled to the rim with a rich stew of mutton and vegetables -- as good a meal as he had ever tasted. As he sat against a tree, spooning up the last of the stew, he reflected on how his life was changing... almost by the minute. He looked down at the clothing he wore and realized it was incredibly comfortable! Well, all except for the boots. Then he looked around at the other boys. There was no Havel, but his cute little cousin was there with him. And all the boys and men seemed kind and sincere. As he rinsed his plate in a tub of water, and conversed with the other boys, he heard a voice calling for Salim. It was a long moment before he realized that the voice was calling for HIM! And he was especially embarrassed to realize it was Commander Mustafa that he was ignoring.
"Salim, would you care to visit my campfire and drink coffee for a while?"
Some of the boys whispered to each other. A couple patted Salim on the back and smiled knowingly. Salim was a bit confused, but hastened to follow the commander.
End of Part 1 Comments and suggestions greatly appreciated. Mail: bil47@yahoo.com