The Life of a Janissary

“You can’t catch me,” said Alexandru.

His laugh still echoes in my mind.

It was 1454. My childhood is all a blur, but I will never forget this. We ran through the forest as green leaves shone like emeralds from the sunlight. My heart pounded so hard as though it would fall off my chest at any moment. His long hair flowed in the wind. I grinned with each inch I closed between us until my cheeks became red. Sweat flooded Alexandru’s face, and he stumbled on a tree branch. I took my chance and jumped on him.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

I laughed. “You should’ve been more careful.”

“One day, Mihnea. I will defeat you.”

I chuckled. “You say it every day.”

I got up and gave him a hand. We stood there for a while to catch our breath. I still remember his pearl-like teeth and grey eyes. No jewel in all of the three continents matched their beauty. By Allah, I wish my life ended there. With my little brother, among the trees of Wallachia. But it did not, and he said his last words to me,

*“Race you home!”*

He turned on his heel and ran back. I smiled and chased him.

A man talked to my father. He wore a weird red coat, and a golden, curved sword was strapped to his hips. My father turned toward me.

“Go inside, Mihnea,” he said.

I stared at him as I went to their other room. They wore the clothes of the East, yet his face looked no different than my own. Now I know why. They belonged to the famous or infamous Janissaries, the elite force of the Ottoman Sultanate, and my father had just sold me to them. Only Mihnea of all my family protested. Maybe because only he cared.

They took me to the former City of Mary, and now the capital of the largest empire, Constantinople. I looked outside the window of the caravan. The dome of the great church, now a masjid, Hagia Sophia, sparkled in the distance. Its dome touched the clouds. The smell of chillies stung, and I sneezed.

The Janissary chuckled, “Spice, is it? You’ll get used to it.”

I cleaned my nose with my sleeve, and he said, “Come on outside.”

The door opened, and he moved his shamshir near me. I grabbed it, and he placed me beside him. Colour filled the streets. No two people nor their clothes looked the same. They went about their day without a glance at their surroundings. What place could be so important? People spoke in different languages. I even recognized my own tongue in the flood of voices. People walked with their fingers adorned with jewels and turbans bigger than their heads. Men with beards as white as milk carried piles of books so high that it hid their faces.

“Where are they going?”

“The library.”

“What’s that?”

“A building to store the books.”

“You have a building for that!”

The Janissary laughed, and I hid my face in shame.

“There is no shame in asking questions,” he said.

“I thought there was only one book.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“And what is that?”

“The Bible.”

He smiled and wrapped his hand around my shoulders. “No, there are many, many more.”

“Where are we going?”

“We are the children of the Sultan. We live with him.”

“And where is that?”

He pointed toward the place. The Sultan’s palace glimmered in the sunlight. A flowing language covered its walls like veins. Trees taller than houses waved to passersby. The scent of roses threw me into a trance. More Janissaries roamed its spacious and sparkling halls and corridors. The palace was a city on its own. Its gardens were more beautiful than any Wallachian forest.

We reached the garrison, and music whispered in my ear. But it gave me no joy. The Janissaries walked with such discipline as though they planned each step. The constant clank of swords pained my ears. I missed the tender touch of my mother, for here everyone’s hands were as hard as stone. I heard a rumour long ago that a Janissary crushed the skull of a galloping horse, and now I believed it.

The life of a Janissary scared me. The way they walked with firm and long steps. The way they dressed. Long and heavy shamshirs always clung to their bodies. Their red robes, like blood with dark buttons, caged their bodies. Some even carried magical sticks, which made a noise like thunder. If my childhood in Wallachia was a blur, my days in Constantinople were thunder. It constantly banged in my head. But no thunder is without a light. Jaffar was my light. He taught me to handle the sword or Yatagan, as he called it. He made me sit beside him as we ate. He introduced me to the other Janissaries.

“He comes from Wallachia,” he said. “Treat him nice.”

The Ottoman life grew on me. I liked their smoked kebabs and spices, which came from India. I liked the discipline of the Janissary life and the respect. The Janissaries who once stared at me now became my brothers. I spent days and nights with them. They saved my life countless times, and I saved theirs. But what I loved most of us all was Jaffar. When my father abandoned me, he took care of me. When my father threw me out of my home, he gave me shelter. When my father ripped me away from my brother, he gave me a whole Corp of brothers.

I had a life among the Janissaries. I took the red uniform like the colour of a sun eclipse. Its tall white hat symbolized my power and rank. We, the most powerful force in the entire three continents. No one could face us and not meet our shamshirs, or so I thought.

The Sultan’s decision to invade Wallachia cut my heart in half. I thought when I would return home with gifts and gold for my brother, not a shamshir. The King of Wallachia, Vlad the Impaler, burned everything to slow our march: That we may not be blessed with the sweet water and fruits of my home. The emerald trees turned to dust. But nothing saddened me more than my own brother standing against me.

“I will kill you!” said Alexandru.

“Alexandru,” I said. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you.”

“You die by my hand, brother. Your Sultan will not take this land.”

“This land? This is my land. My home.”

“Then why is your sword pointed at me?”

I lowered my sword but pointed it again. I cannot take a chance.

“Is this what you become, brother?”

The Sultan’s cannons roared and cracked the sky. The smoke and fire made the sky bleed. The cannons obliterated my people into a thousand pieces. The ground became muddy and drank the blood of both my brothers and my people like a sponge. What kind of test is this? For the first time ever, my hand shook. But Jaffar’s voice cut through the crowd of noises like a sharp sword.

“Do not cower. For the Sultan!”

I gripped my shamshir.

“I am a Janissary.”

“And I am a Wallachian.”

We jumped onto each other like dogs. So many questions whirled in my mind.

*How’s mother? Is she still alive? Where is our home, I have forgotten.*

But with each drop of blood, a question was murdered. He swirled his sword, and his laughing face flashed before me. I blocked his attack and pushed him away.

“Brother,” I whispered.

His eyes widened, and his mouth hung half open.

“No one has called me brother in ten years,” he said.

“By Allah, I don’t wish to kill you.”

“It’s not my wish either, but you are not my brother anymore.”

He rushed toward me with his sword pointed toward me like a spear. My eyes bulged out with fear, and I froze. Jaffar pushed Alexandru, and he flew away.

“Where is your head, boy?” he said.

“I, ah, he is my brother.”

“Your brother?”

A sword pierced through his chest, and air ran out of his lungs. His kind face cracked like burned wood. Blood stained his chest. The soil tarnished his hat. He fell to the ground, and my entire world fell.

Where will I go now? Who am I? Where is my family?

Alexandru pushed his sword out of Jaffar’s pure chest.

“You,” I said with blood in my eyes.

“You should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“You’re right!”

I grabbed him by the chest and pinned him to the ground. I took his sword.

No, it’ll be too quick. I threw it away. I punched and broke his nose. I punched him until his blood leaked from my fist. I disfigured his face beyond measure. At that moment, a thought hit me. I never memorized his face.

Tears flooded through me, and I leaned on my brother’s chest. For the second time in my life, I wished for death. So, Allah granted it. My blood met the same soil as my brother and Jaffar, my world.

I am Mihnea. Son of Wallachia and a Janissary.