The Wild Fields

by Purple Hazel

  After being cut short, the young man fell silent for a little while. Only the wind and buzzing flies could be heard as everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to break the silence. Apparently, the imagery this conjured in everyone’s minds was too much to handle. The prisoners remained quiet like that for what seemed like an eternity. However, Ludmilla remained curious about one important detail that hadn’t been explained in the young man’s story thus far. Just how did he get captured? That being said, she didn’t want to be that one rude individual who spoke up about something that might still be sensitive to the fellow. Yet her curiosity was soon to be satisfied, when sure enough someone else decided to be bold enough to ask the obvious question.

  “So then,” asked another man, breaking the interminable silence, “how did you end up here…with us? If the Turks left…as you said…why did you get caught?” The answer ended up being even more sordid and morally reprehensible than the tale he’d already told! Truly, by the time he completed telling the rest of the story of his eventual capture and brutal treatment at the hands of the Turks, most everyone wished they hadn’t asked.

  “Well you see, I later went searching through the town for anyone left alive,” the boy replied, “I found no one. So I set myself to the task of collecting the dead to make graves for them.” He shifted his weight and then continued. “I collected several bodies throughout the next hour or so before entering a house where I thought I might find some food for my breakfast.” Then his eyes began to show rising apprehension over what happened next. By then people nearby were riveted.

  “Under a pile of blankets on a bed,” he went on to say, “I thought I saw some feet sticking out, so I carefully lifted the covers to see who was under them. Unfortunately for me, those feet turned out to belong to a rather well-fed Turk who’d obviously passed out drunk the night before and not yet awakened.” The boy said he froze in fear for a moment, but it was just long enough for the large man to come to and snatch the boy by the shirttail as he turned to flee. “He was too strong for me,” the young man confessed darkly, “I couldn’t get away.”

  “And the big Turk then…so it was he who captured you, eh?” asked one of the captives who was perhaps just a little too interested in the story by then. The boy, on the contrary, didn’t seem to mind spilling the details of what happened next; and proceeded to nauseate most everyone listening in. It depended on their personal tastes really, but to Ludmilla it was terribly disgusting. For her, the very thought of being ravaged by a dirty, stinking pervert against her will bothered her greatly—just as much as it did Tatyana—and it bothered everyone else too, especially the way the boy recounted it.

  “Not exactly,” replied the boy. “The Turk, you see, had a penchant for young men and boys, or so it would seem. I was to find that out soon enough, I’m afraid to say.” This drew a few groans from the others—Ludmilla among them. She hoped that was all the boy had to say for the time being. But he was only getting started.

  Perhaps it was a cultural thing, perhaps it was something customary among the troops in his unit, but to the Turk, the young man must have seemed as tempting and tantalizing as a young maiden bathing half-naked in a stream. Whatever the reason, the fat man made the boy into his own personal plaything for the rest of the afternoon; doing things to him that not just a few people found morally detestable.

  “He bound my hands, removed my trousers…even hung me upside down naked by my feet. Then he did awful things to me…awful things. I had no hope of escape…thought he’d finish with me eventually and cut my throat. But he had different plans for me that day, I must say. And it did no good crying out either, even though I did—several times. When he untied me from the ceiling rafters and tied me to the bed, face down, he mounted me like a big hairy beast. Forced himself into me. Rode me like a pony. I wanted to die! It hurt so badly—and he was so disgusting. Smelled like a pig.”

  And there was more. By mid-morning or even early afternoon (the young man said he wasn’t terribly sure anymore) the Turk had finally expended himself. Then he laid back down with the boy to take a nap. That’s when the young man decided he’d better try and make a break for it. However due to his bindings, he could not get very far. Still nude, and with his ankles tied together as well as his wrists tied behind his back, he waited for the big Turk to roll over and release his grip. It took a while, but eventually the boy gently wiggled free to make his escape. This time fortunately, the Turk did not wake up.

  The young man said, “I then hopped across the floor out of the little house and into the streets of the town with my ankles still bound and my wrists tied.” Still fully exposed, he could only hope to hop over to the town livery stable and amidst the smoldering ruins find something sharp with which he could cut his bindings and free himself. However, the town was no longer “unoccupied” as he soon found out. Yet another band of Bashi-Bazook approached on horseback from the opposite end of town, and God help him if they didn’t look right down the street to see a young man hopping along naked with his hands tied behind his back!

  “I tried bounding like a bunny rabbit toward the livery stable to try and cut my bindings on something jagged; but it was no use,” he said with a sigh. The laughing Turks overtook him easily within a few minutes.

  “So…I was captured by the Turks for a second time,” he said with growing embarrassment. “And this time it was even worse than before. They kept me for several more days in their camps…sort of like their pet. I was passed around…shared among them in various ways and used by them whenever or however they wished. They were insatiable, I tell you. I’d get an hour or two of sleep, then one or two would come for me again!” Delighted by the young man’s gleaming white physique and tight buttocks, the Turks made good use of him night after night as they mounted him repeatedly. The poor fellow could hardly walk the next day—let alone keep up with his captors’ constant demands on his body.

  Eventually though, the Turks did tire of the young man and when the Tatar army came through the area, the Bashi-Bazook decided it was time to dispose of him. Yet they didn’t murder him like he’d feared they would when they no longer had any use for him. They simply deposited the young fellow into the main column of prisoners and rode off.

  “I was given some clothing taken off a dead body to wear, and by then,” he said, “I was so exhausted and humiliated that joining that long column of prisoners was a welcome relief!” That said, now that it had been a few weeks of marching, and they’d finally arrived in Tatar territory, he feared what might happen to him next if he fell into Turkish hands once again. “I just hope they don’t sell me to another Turk,” he said with a look of terror. “I’ll never be able to sit down again.” After that, he fell silent.

  “So these other men—the ones who captured you,” asked an inquisitive prisoner, “you mean they also preferred young men and boys…over women?” Several people, shocked by the blunt question, turned to look disgustedly at the person speaking, then looked back at the young man shaking their heads assuring him he needn’t answer. But another man, who’d been listening in, explained it rather tactfully—just to put an end to the discussion. “You see comrades, it’s a different culture for these Turks when it comes to matters of sexuality. A young unspoiled maiden of the same age as our friend here (indicating with a nod toward Tatyana)…is valuable. They would not damage such a beautiful prize. A young man? Well, let’s just say they could enjoy him more uh…freely…before selling him back to the Tatars later as a potential field hand. It’s the way of things for these people . Anyway, let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  The young man happily agreed. “Yes, let somebody else talk now,” he sighed. And to that a few people muttered in agreement. Truly his ordeal had been incredible, but reality was he'd lived through it simply because the Turks found uses for him. It could have been a lot worse, some said, just to assure the young man he should be thankful in at least a small way…thankful to still be alive.

  Others
told their stories as well, of capture and abuse at the hands of the Tatars. It lent a bit of humanity to their experience being able to talk to one another: no longer feeling like herded animals. Some folks talked about the future with dread. Others talked about the benefits of moving south to warmer climates! It was a bizarre statement at first, yes, but the woman who first stated this—a middle aged lady in her thirties with prematurely graying hair and weathered features—made a rather decent argument for seeing it that way. It almost caught on with a few people around her. “What’s the difference anyway?” she opined, “we work to death on our farms here in Russia, freeze in the winter, beg for scraps from our lords’ tables. One Master is the same as any other, I tell you.”

  Yet others—most everyone actually—disagreed. “As Christians in Christian lands we are better protected and there are laws governing our treatment. Down south…in Tatar lands…this will no longer be the case,” argued one. Ludmilla pondered this. Would she end up working on a farm? Likely. But where? Her neighbors among the resting prisoners offered up various alternatives.

  “Some stay right here in the Crimea. Many go on to Caffa and work in the town, I’ve heard,” said one older man. Another younger man said, “I hear they’re taking shiploads of slaves down to the Ottomans!” Ludmilla clarified this claim. “Across the Black Sea?” The wide-eyed man nodded and winced anxiously. Ludmilla suddenly realized they might be quite literally in the same “boat” someday—assuming the Tatars continued to believe Ludmilla was a man that is.

  And when she processed this, it occurred to her: this ruse she'd pulled off throughout her young life, living as a man, might come to a rather sticky end whenever it finally came her turn for branding! She asked about it, too—asked the other young farmer if he’d been branded yet and he said no. But an older gentleman in the group told them not to worry. “It’s not so terrible, my friends,” he said. “They pick an open spot on your arm usually, and all they do is have you pull off your rubashka, then stick you with a hot iron. It burns terribly for a day or so, then you don’t notice it so much.”

  Ludmilla clarified, “They pull of your rubashka? Do they really have to do that? Can’t they just roll up your sleeve?” The man explained, “No, they want to inspect you too…to see if you have any deformities. They look for strong workers, you see—want to weed out the lame and the weak—want to see if you’ll make a good farm hand. Don't worry, though, once they see your big muscles, my boy, you'll be fine.” He smiled and nodded with a wink.

  That made Ludmilla's heart sink into her stomach once again. Lord in Heaven, she thought, they'll inspect my bare chest and then they’ll see: breasts the size of a man’s fists; and a hairless body from the waist up. Tatyana patted her back and consoled her a while. “Don't worry, Lyev. They'll see…you're just as big and strong as any man…and they'll notice that. Just show them how tough you are.” Then she winked and nodded, as if to indicate that Ludmilla should know full well what she meant.

  Ludmilla knew she needed a clever idea, and God forbid, if it didn’t work those pigs would see her big boobs the moment she removed her rubashka. There’d be no explaining herself then! There’d be only one more thing they’d need to verify; and things would degenerate quickly when they yanked her pants down! However: what if there was some way she could show them just how tough she was? Removing all doubt that she was a man? That's all she needed to do. Tatyana was right. That's when Ludmilla devised a rather bold idea. When it came time for branding, she’d make those heathens believe somehow she was a rugged farmboy. All she needed was a patsy to use in her little scheme, and God willing, she’d convince those Tatars to skip the “field inspection” completely.

  Chapter 11

  Caffa

  Eventually it became clear that Ludmilla's turn with the branding iron was fast approaching. Groups of Tatars were gathering near the large group of prisoners in which they sat, and it was Tatyana who seemed to grasp the situation first.

  “I think they're getting ready to select from our group,” said Tatyana anxiously. “Oh, no, I hope they don't take me. I hope they don't take you either,” she added with a whimper. Ludmilla had no words to comfort her. Her focus now turned to watching the Tatars and figuring out just what they were looking for. She was not alone in that regard.

  Soon everyone's questions were answered though. Approaching in pairs, ten or twelve Tatars walked up to Ludmilla’s section, batting away flies drawn to the stench of unwashed bodies sitting on the ground. When the Tatars walked into the crowd, they very businesslike reached down and grabbed a preselected male, lifted him up by the armpits with the prisoner's wrists still bound together in front, then hauled him away. After three other men were grabbed from the crowd in this same manner, another pair of Tatars selected Ludmilla and she was led away. Tatyana gasped in fear, but Ludmilla looked back at her with a confident nod to let her know everything would be alright.

  She was next led with nearly fifty others to join a large group that had been collected from farther down the column. As they moved along additional groups of prisoners were joined to them, and eventually their numbers grew to around five hundred able bodied slaves. Under heavy guard they were led far away from the main body of prisoners—at least a quarter of a mile—and across a field and nearby hill where they then descended into a small valley that had a stream running through it and a large clump of trees. Ludmilla could see about twelve campfires blazing; and as they got even closer she could see branding irons roasting red hot in the flames! “Well, this is it,” she muttered to herself.

  The branding irons were smaller than those used on horses or cattle, but each seemed to have a different symbol on it. The pack of prisoners was led right up to the area and halted for several moments giving Ludmilla time to study the closest pile of irons. The symbols were foreign to her and she couldn't understand what they might say, but soon it became much clearer. After a short while, some warriors came forward and grabbed five of the prisoners to take them to one of the campfires where they were huddled together, shoulder to shoulder or back to back. Then two or three other Tatars picked up buckets filled from the nearby stream and doused the prisoners with cold water in order to clean them off a bit and get rid of at least some of their odor. A Mirza, or some other person in authority, then came forward to examine each man.

  More Tatars came up and grabbed more prisoners; in groups of five to seven, and each group was taken to a different campsite for inspection. Then came the bath, then came the inspection, and it was in many cases quite thorough, especially with prisoners who seemed a bit frail. Larger men who seemed to be good specimens were hardly even looked at. Now it was starting to make more sense. The branding irons were likely to be used for classification. The inspector was merely determining the strength and durability of each male slave to classify him for an appropriate function..

  When Ludmilla was finally selected and led to a campfire site; she'd seen by now what the inspection entailed and it was rather frightening. Prisoners remained bound by the wrists but their rubashkas were lifted up in both the front and the back to examine their bodies for deformities, unhealed injuries, or physical infirmities. The shirt would be pulled over their heads; then they'd be made to kneel while another Tatar grabbed the appropriate iron, based on the inspector's classification. The man with the branding iron would then touch the upper arm of the prisoner gently with the red-hot iron, right above the bicep, causing most prisoners to cry out in agony, but some simply groaned and gritted their teeth bravely. After that, the poor man would be led away. It went rather quickly like that for most of the prisoners—but not all of them. Some received more thorough examinations.

  Inspectors had a small rod or staff to use in poking at sensitive areas to check for infections, internal injuries, diseases, and God knows what else. But they seemed to know what they were looking for, that was for sure. If a man limped, his trousers would be dropped to the ground and the inspector would probe with his stick to find the sour
ce of the infirmity. Skinny or frail men got even more “attention.” Some had to bend over and have their rectums examined! And that was indeed a horrifying thought in the minds of many in the crowd of prisoners awaiting their turn with the branding iron. There could be only one reason for examining a man “down there,” most prisoners knew. Ludmilla began to imagine the rather effeminate young man from her group earlier that morning telling the story about being captured and violated repeatedly by the Turks. She could already picture him being examined this way, bent over naked with a rod poking into his bottom, and the Tatars deciding to brand him as a male concubine or body servant. It turned her stomach thinking about such things. God…if they do that to me, I’m finished, she thought.

  Therefore the prisoners soon realized they’d better not be found to be weak. The more frail or docile a man appeared, the more likely he'd receive such humiliating treatment. The stronger and more virile a prisoner appeared, the safer they’d be from getting their pants pulled down and their bottoms probed. It made Ludmilla’s skin crawl; and that's precisely what solidified the plan Ludmilla had devised. If looking strong and appearing tough was the only way to avoid being stripped and bent over, buttocks spread open by greasy hands—and a rod poked into her rectum—then that's precisely what she was going to do.

  Her plan evolved slowly in her mind: once they'd gathered prisoners together to douse them with stream water, Ludmilla would pretend to be offended by one of the prisoners and yell insults toward the man. She'd pick the biggest one in the group, making sure everyone was paying attention before she struck him. Then she'd punch the poor fellow right in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of him. That should serve well in convincing the Tatars she was a big tough farmboy, and with a little luck…perhaps speed up the inspection process.