Date: Sat, 1 Dec 2001 07:48:32 -0800 (PST)
From: Bill <bil47@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Sultan's Favorite Boy, Part 1

[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