SLAVE MARKET

CAFFA, CRIMEAN KHANATE

Atahan flung open his bedroom windows and breathed in the sweet mountain air. Today was going to be a good day; product flooded in like never before. The pointless wars that the Christians were fighting brought him many captives, and captives were always good for business.

After his morning prayers, and a quick breakfast of wheat pancakes and soup, he left his two-story house to venture into the bustling slave market. As a yerliyya, or local janissary, Atahan had enjoyed both the benefits of education and military training, something few people at that time could afford. The local vizier assigned him many years ago to assist with the business affairs of the notorious slaver Imran Bey, whose business was vital to the Ottoman economy in the area. His job as the bey’s adjutant was something he took quite seriously.

The early risers were already out in full force, oiling the naked bodies of their products and making sure that there was not a louse to be found on a single scalp. Everything had to be perfect for the morning’s sale.

“As-salaam alaikum esteemed Atahan,” a merchant said as he came up to greet him. “How fares your lord Imran Bey?”

“Wa-alaikum salaam, Muzeffer Effendi. He fares well. Recent sales have been astounding, may Allah be content.”

“Yes, but your lord does not have products as fair as mine.” he said as he gestured towards a gaggle of naked slave women, huddled up for warmth. While their skin was indeed pristine and white, and their hair curled and perfumed, the women themselves shivered, due to the cold and fear.

“Damned Circassians.” Muzeffer muttered, “Beautiful creatures, but weak constitution. They will live, though. I am not too worried.”

Atahan chuckled, “Muzeffer Effendi, my lord does not deal in concubines, and you know this. It is as if we compare a tea house to a blacksmith.”

“And I am the tea house?” Muzeffer asked with a sly grin.

“As you wish, effendi.” Atahan said with a slight bow of his head as he continued along his way.

“Atahan Effendi, wait a moment.” Muzeffer said, gently tapping him on the shoulder.

“One of your master’s Tatars recently came bearing a message.”

He produced a rolled piece of parchment from the folds of his cloak and handed it to Atahan. The seal, bearing the eagle of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, was still unbroken.

“Your master will remember my trustworthiness I hope?”

“I will be sure to mention your name.”

Muzeffer smiled and made a low, grateful bow, stepping away to leave Atahan to his business.

As he continued through the slave market, Atahan continued to take in the sights and smells of the market. He now entered the finely decorated outer courtyard of the market where some of the slave traders resided. The neatly trimmed garden trees reached for the heavens like fingers, and the birds sang their sweet songs as they alighted on the cages of sobbing slaves.

Small children, secured in burlap sacks with only their heads sticking out of the bags, were being offloaded off of a wagon that had arrived just in time for market day. As he walked under a stone awning with intricately decorated arabesques, Atahan paused for a while and leaned on a pillar to observe the bickering between the Tatar slave raider and the Turkish merchant.

“What have you done?! I cannot accept these now – how am I supposed to prepare them in time for display?” said the slave trader.

The Tatar slave raider merely shrugged and said, “But they are fresh. Look at this one – I caught it just yesterday.” pointing to a little Russian boy that was crying for his mama.

“Yes, well freshness like this is a bad thing in this business. You should know that by now. I will pay you but at half price.”

“That is hardly fair.”

“You were late and your product is riddled with filth. You are lucky I am not paying you at quarter rate.”

As the bag of coins fell into the disappointed slave raider’s hands, Atahan shook his head and smiled. These sorts of misunderstandings happened often; the rough Crimean Tatars had no mind for finesse, unlike Ottomans like himself and his lord. The opulent and magnificently decorated wooden doors that he now walked through could never be found in a Tatar home. Indeed, this was the house of Imran Bey, his master.

The bey had a passion for the color green. Silk curtains dyed with a vibrant shade of emerald decorated the walls, while geometric patterns painted in gold leaf seemed to swim across the roof and floor.

The bey stood in his reception room, richly attired in a green and yellow robe with a white turban wrapped around his head, inspecting a product recently brought in by one of his slave raiders, who was beaming with pride. The slave, bound in chains and wearing nothing but a loincloth, gazed with hatred at the bey who stood before him.

“What have you brought me, Dastan?” the bey said, as he circled the product, thoughtfully stroking his short beard.

“A most exotic specimen, effendi. The papers say it came all the way from Gao,” the slave raider paused for dramatic effect, “in Africa!”

The slave’s angry, cursing eyes followed Imran Bey as he walked around him. He had very dark complexion and curly hair. His wide nose and large lips did not make him particularly attractive in the eyes of the bey, but he had a well-muscled body, something that could be particularly useful for manual labor. However…

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“Dastan, you have brought me a siyahî.”

“You will pardon my ignorance, effendi, but this word you say… siyahî? I do not understand.”

“A siyahî, an African slave, Dastan. I forget you Kazakhs do not have a word for them. There are few places for siyahî in the empire and you have brought it to the wrong market. It is not built for the cold climate of this place, and it is only suitable for bodyguard work, which is readily provided for by the Russian and Moldovan slaves, which can be bought at a cheaper price.”

The bey held the slave by the mouth to observe his teeth, but the African violently lunged at him, prompting Dastan to pull him back by his slave collar.

“Too aggressive.” the bey said as he stepped back, “The only place fit for a siyahî like this one in the entire empire is in a harem to serve as a guard, but this one has not even been neutered yet.”

Dastan sighed in disappointment.

“Do not worry, my friend. I will help you with the cutting presently. The sooner this is done, the sooner the wound will be able to heal. You will be able to sell this to some rich pasha looking for a dependable guard.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, effendi, but I feel that a trained physician should handle this matter.”

“Are you afraid that I might damage your product? Nonsense – I have done this many times before.” Imran Bey turned and noticed that Atahan had entered the building.

“Ah, Atahan, my good and faithful adjutant.” Imran Bey said, smiling, “Welcome. You are just in time to assist with the neutering.”

“As-salaam alaikum, effendi. Muzeffer at the marketplace says that one of your men had come bearing a message.”

“I am sure that whatever it is can wait.” Imran Bey said as he produced a knife from a nearby drawer. “Do you know where we put the bandages, Atahan?”

“They are in the upstairs storeroom, effendi.”

“I am loath to make that arduous trek for the sake of a slave. It will have to do without.”

“But what if it bleeds out?” Dastan protested.

The bey gave an apathetic shrug and proceeded towards the African, who stared at the knife wide-eyed in fear.

“Dastan, Atahan, hold it down.”

As the bey commanded, the two men jumped at the African and threw him onto a nearby table. Each wrestled with an arm and a leg as the African screamed in his foreign language and shouted for his heathen gods to protect him.

Once he was somewhat restrained and Imran Bey did not have to fear being kicked in the face, the bey cut off his loincloth with his knife and groaned in frustration upon seeing that the man’s testicles had shrunken in fear.

“You shall have to hold him still, my friends. This will take some skill on my part.”

“About the letter, effendi…”

“Not now, Atahan.” the bey said as he grabbed the African’s scrotum. As he did this the slave began to scream louder and got more violent with his writhing. Imran’s cut would have to be swift and precise. He brought the knife in with one quick slashing motion and off came the slave’s testicles. Blood soaked his linen tablecloth as the slave shrieked in pain.

“You were saying something about a message?” the bey said over the noise of the screaming African.

“It has a seal with an eagle on it, effendi.”

“Why did you not say so earlier? Come, let us discuss the matter in my study. Leave the siyahî.”

With that, Atahan let go of the arm and leg he was restraining so that Dastan was forced to do everything himself, including the act of dragging a profusely bleeding man out of the bey’s house. The two Turks ascended a winding staircase to the bey’s study while the African’s screaming faded away as he was dragged outside.

“Hand me the letter,” said the bey. As Atahan handed his master the rolled parchment, the bey ripped off the seal and unrolled the piece of parchment, scrutinizing every word.

“A message from the Polack colonel.” the bey said as he rolled up the document once more. “The Christian claims that he has captured his prize and that the other half of the payment he promised for my Tatar mercenaries is ready.”

“He was smart, that one.” Atahan added, “Half now and half if they do their job and not run back to you.”

The bey threw open the double doors to his study on the upper floor of his estate. The room continued his emerald scheme, with golden-trimmed green curtains covering everything from the walls to the ceilings. Maps of the various territories of the Ottoman Empire covered the walls, and a large map of the entire empire served as the floor decoration.

The Ottomans were a people that ruled over a vast swathe of humanity. They had conquered more land than the ancient Persians and Alexander the Great combined. Every man from Transylvania in the west to the birthplace of the Prophet himself in the east called the sultan lord; every spice, every exotic good, and every slave from the east flowed to and from markets touched by the sultan’s hand. It was the largest contiguous empire in the world.

The bey traced his finger through a map of Poland as Atahan looked on.

“This is Jarlsberg Castle.” he said, tapping on a tiny dot in the Swedish Baltic lands. “Before he left on his campaign the Polack told me that he was to capture it. If this is true then he has restarted the war with Sweden.”

“The war ended?” asked Atahan.

“Yes, very recently. I understand it is difficult to keep up with events in nations that do not concern us, but these things are vital for people like me, as you will see. Atahan, what would it look like if we took our client prisoner?”

“It would look extremely bad, effendi. That would leave a mark on our reputation that…”

“It would look extremely bad to whom, exactly?”

“To the client’s family and countrymen, effendi; they would never again trust us. We would not be able to have repeat business with them – ever.”

“Has the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth ever had cause for commonality with the great Ottoman Empire?”

“No, effendi.”

“This is the beauty of it. No Polish lord has ever dared buy product from a Muslim because we were never trusted in the first place. This single Polack became a rebel to the crown and now he expects me to simply stare at the fruit of his actions as it dangles in front of me.

“The king of Poland now has a rebel on the loose, Atahan. If I were a king I would not want to disrupt a peace treaty while the ink is still dry. He will be looking for names of collaborators, spies, and other traitors who would restart this war illegally. It is inconceivable that this man wishes to restart the war on his own. Colonel Jan Casimir is worth a lot of money to the king of Poland as a living prisoner. Besides I do not believe he could stomach the thought of one of his officers being held by an ‘infidel’ like me.”

Atahan saw the simplicity in his master’s plan. By allowing this Polish colonel to successfully retake a castle without the support of his government behind him, he was passively creating a valuable captive, whom he could capture with ease if he were disguised as an ally. The rewards would be immense.

“Surely he has sent word to his king, begging him to throw his army behind him in support of his illegal war. The idiot was raving on about the injustices of the Swedish peace as he was negotiating rates with me. He practically assured me that the Polish King would come to his aid. He is wrong. He commits this act of foolish treason alone. Whatever the case, we Turks have the advantage here – we can depart soon and present the prisoner before the appropriate client within the week. If we leave tomorrow with a sizeable force of mounted sipahi lancers and Tatars, we will arrive at the castle in perhaps three days.”

Imran Bey left the map and walked over to his balcony. He reveled in the scene below – his sipahis, Ottoman knights known for their brutality and speed on horseback, were practicing their skills with the bow and sword, massacring row upon row of ripe melons.

“Unlike the Polish, I anticipated this event well in advance. We have been training for days. Tell the men the time has come to leave.”