- excerpt -

The thirty riders, who stopped early in the morning in front of the wooden church, looked like warriors from the land of eternal winter. White ice encrusted their mail armour and glazed their bronze helms, and snow feathers clung to their spears like shredded banners of the realm.

"How many can we put in the wagon?" Tariq Abd-al-Rahman asked the man at his side who, by his kaftan and white turban wrapped around a red cap, was an imperial military judge of the Ottoman Empire, a kadi.

"Four, we only have room for four, Pasha Rahman. If you want more, you can get them when I collect the devshirmeh tax in Tirgoviste," he said putting his hand on the large satchel hanging across his chest.

"Four, huh?" Rahman spat on the ground. Frost fell from the plume of horsehair decorating his red turban wrapped around a polished bronze cap. "I don’t want any girls."

"Yes, but these peasants are parting more willingly with their daughters than with their sons because boys can bring in a dowry when they take a wife," the kadi replied.

"Abdul," Rahman called, turning his attention to an approaching rider. "Where is the wagon?"

"Near the edge of the village with the coach, Salar Rahman," the man answered addressing him by his military rank. His slanted eyes and limp moustache, which hung below the line of his smooth jaw, made him look peculiar. Like the rest of the riders, he was armed with a saber, a curved dagger, and a round shield on his back, but in his right hand, instead of a spear, he held a bamboo stick with a spiked ball at its end.

"Bring me the priest then!" ordered Rahman, and he removed his bearskin mantel and placed it in front of him across the saddle. He wore a long red dolman festooned with golden braids and red trousers tucked in high riding boots. At his side, he carried a saber and a long curved dagger.

Abdul signaled and two soldiers dismounted and went to the small hut tucked behind the church.

"What tongue do they speak in this forsaken land, Abdul?" Rahman asked, watching the soldiers bringing back an old man dressed in a nightgown.

"Sort of a sermo vulgaris, Salar."

"What do they call you?" Rahman asked the priest as soon as he stood in front of his horse.

"The villagers call me Father Eftimie, merciful lord," he answered shivering in the cold. His hair and beard looked disheveled and his eyes were wide with fear.

"I am the new kaimakam of the land." Rahman pointed to his large silver pendant in the shape of an eagle holding a scepter and sword in its claws, the emblem of Wallachia. "I am here to collect the military levy from your village in accordance with the wishes of your new voievod, Vladislaus."

The priest appeared puzzled, but then his face lit up and he said frantically, "I did not find any takers on the offer, merciful lord."

"Takers on what offer?" Rahman asked with an even voice.

"Men to serve in the Hungarian army, my lord, as requested by Voievod Vladislav Dan."

"The priest is talking about the call for volunteers for the banderium," explained the kadi in Turkish. "Johann Hunyadi put out the call last year when he placed Vladislav Dan on the throne."

"Vladislav Dan is the usurper who killed Vlad Dracul," Abdul added.

Confused, the priest opened his mouth to speak again, but Rahman yelled, "Be silent, or I’ll have your forked tongue pulled out by its roots! Go inside and get your cassock and mitre." He then turned to the two soldiers and told them in Turkish to follow the old man.

"These peasants hate the devshirmeh and will not bring their boys willingly," said the kadi. "You should lie to them or be ready to chase after them into the hills."

It wasn’t long before the soldiers returned with the priest, whose breath was coming out in heavy plumes. Strands of white hair hung down in his eyes from under the mitre.

"Listen to me, you uncircumcised," Rahman growled, leaning in his saddle. "You will take us to every abode where a boy above the age of twelve lives. Be truthful, or for every lie I will cut off one of your fingers, you hear?"

Unable to move under Rahman’s menacing gaze, the priest stood still. "What shall I tell the villagers?" he asked shaking violently.

"Tell them ... we are looking for fugitives," Rahman lied. "Now go!" he ordered pointing in the direction of the houses.

Walking a bit unsteadily, the priest went to the nearest house and stopped in front of the gate. "I saw a young man standing on the porch of this house last night, a stranger to our parts." He spoke quickly as if the words burned his mouth.

A dog came running from the back of the yard, barking furiously. Abdul took a spear from the hands of one of his men and threw it through the laths of the fence. The dog let out a terrible howl followed by a wail of agony. Two soldiers pushed open the gate and went toward the house. It took them a few blows to break down the door. They returned quickly, dragging Lorian.

Maria, the young widow, ran after them, but when she reached the road, Abdul reached down from his horse and grabbed her by the hair. At her screams, her father appeared with a cudgel in his hand. He ran through the gate to his daughter, but before he could reach her, Abdul turned his horse around and hit him squarely in the head with his dreadful bamboo stick. Stunned by the blow, Ioan fell to his knees, but the cudgel was still in his hand so the terrible weapon lashed through the air again.

"By the blood of our Savior, don’t kill him!" the priest cried and clasped his hands, but the bamboo stick lashed out a third time and Ioan fell on his face. Stirred by the blood gushing from his head, the horse reared and crushed him with its hooves.

"Abdul, stop!" Rahman yelled in Turkish, rushing his horse forward. "You’ll stir the villagers and they’ll run into the woods."

Maria ran to her father who lay crumpled on the frozen dirt. She dropped to her knees and began wailing, pulling at her hair.

"Make her stop!" Rahman ordered. "Did you hear me, priest? Make her stop or I’ll cut off her head!"

Father Eftimie rushed to the woman and covered her mouth. "Pagan assassins!" he yelled with tears in his eyes.

For a moment, Rahman stared at the priest as waves of anger swept over him. Then he dismounted and drew his saber. Abdul also dismounted. From behind, he twisted the priest’s arms, forcing him to bend forward.

"Satan speaks through your blasphemous tongue," growled Rahman with livid lips, slowly raising the heavy curved blade.

Father Eftimie's knees buckled. His mitre fell off his head into the puddle of urine forming between his legs.

"But I am merciful as the Prophet teaches me and I will give you one last chance." Rahman lowered his saber and Abdul let the priest fall to all fours. With difficulty, Father Eftimie rose slowly to his feet and put his mitre back on his head.

"Go tell the villagers I want to see all the boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen right now. He will go with you," said Rahman pointing at Abdul, "and beware, for he is a dragoman and speaks your tongue better than you do."

Nine more boys were soon gathered and lined up next to Lorian. Rahman moved from one boy to the next, looking carefully at their limbs. Each time he was satisfied, he said "Onu" and Abdul tied the boy’s hands behind his back and placed one of the choking loops, coming out from the side hole of a long bamboo pole, around his neck. After choosing four boys, Rahman returned to Lorian and asked, "How old are you?"

"Almost seventeen," he answered with tight lips.

"A bit old but you’ll make a very nice ghulam." Rahman’s mouth twisted in a wide grin as he stroked Lorian’s neck and chin.

"A David in the making, but you have already selected four," said the kadi, feeling pity for the young man. "There is no more room in the wagon."

"When we reach the squadron, we’ll put him in the coach with the two brothers. Abdul, make sure his hands are well-tied!"

After the loop at the front of the bamboo pole was placed around Lorian's neck, Abdul pulled hard on the rope coming out of the other end of it, making the five boys gag. With a grin of satisfaction on his face, Abdul led the prisoners away, followed by the wailings from the men and women held back by the soldiers' spears.