by Purple Hazel
Tatyana and Ludmilla got out of the wagon where they’d been riding; once it came to a stop near a large herd of horses. A Tatar came over to them and tied them together around their necks, connecting them eventually to a larger group of prisoners sitting on the cool grass. It was now almost totally dark. Crowded into a pack of about a hundred and fifty sad and very tired people, they leaned over onto one another and tried to sleep a while without getting kicked or bumped by other prisoners during the night. Neither of them slept very well. It was probably for the better anyway. Ludmilla had a terrible concussion and it was likely safer staying awake all night. Tatyana didn't sleep much either.
* * * *
Next day, Ludmilla awoke to hear the Tatars getting ready to move out. Horses were being saddled, men were milling about grabbing supplies and equipment or rolling up bedrolls. Soon prisoners were being ordered to stand and begin the march once more. She didn’t know exactly how long she’d slept during the night but it didn’t matter anyway. The Tatars were screaming at captives in other sections of the prisoner area so Ludmilla figured she’d better get Tatyana awake and prepared to stand. Tatyana arose with her as thousands of prisoners around them readied themselves for the march.
On this particular morning it was yet another beautiful summer’s day, and the Tatars could tell it would be a great opportunity to cover many miles. Ludmilla could sense it was a good weather day too, and urged Tatyana to prepare herself for an ordeal. “Darling, it’s going to be a long one,” warned Ludmilla, “Whatever you do stay close to me and keep up, okay?” Tatyana sighed, “Oh, my God, Lyev, how can we do this? Look at all these people. How can we make it through this?” Ludmilla reminded her sternly, “Because we have to Darling. Remember what I told you. Just stay alive—any way you can. Even if something happens to me, you keep going. Understand?” Tatyana nodded nervously with tears in her eyes. This was going to be her last good cry of the day, she promised herself.
Ludmilla was unfortunately quite astute in her observation as a matter of fact. It was indeed an incredibly difficult undertaking for the both of them, as they saw and heard things they could never unsee. Horrible things. True, thousands of captive people in that column had been marching for weeks already; and many had survived for even longer than that. Some were on their last legs as the day began. Ludmilla and Tatyana were some of the newest captured prisoners so they’d never seen anything like this before. People crying out. People being whipped. People collapsing and being helped up by fellow prisoners admonishing them for slowing down the column…begging them to rise and continually pleading with them, “Get up, comrade! Get up! You know what they’ll do to you. You know what they’ll do!”
And of course Ludmilla did see or hear several examples of their captor's boundless cruelty. A prisoner would collapse, a Tatar would scream angrily. A horse would screech or snort with annoyance at the interruption. A Tatar would dismount brandishing a dagger and go cut the person from their tether, dragging the body away by the hair like they were some lifeless cadaver. Sometimes the person was already passed out dead away and had no awareness of their fate. Sometimes they awakened, then struggled and begged for mercy. No quarter would be given though—they’d violated the rules—and the penalty was always the same. No stopping. Never. Just keep going. Keep walking and you live. Stop walking; and you die, people said.
Water breaks were few and far between. When given, the Tatars drank first, then their horses, and then finally the prisoners. Large buckets were brought around from wagons which had likely been stolen from villages or farms. Tatars scooped out water to drink, then fed the rest to their horses. Any water left over would then be passed along to the prisoners who would have to scoop water from an already filthy bucket using their bound hands as a cup. It was hard to get any more than a mouthful or two; but it was all they were going to get so they did it anyway—however disgusting it might be.
Prisoners like Tatyana who would likely fetch a hefty price back in Caffa would be approached with water first, and that was one immediate advantage that Ludmilla recognized. Her concussed head was no longer an issue for her by midday, but thirst certainly was. When the column stopped for water, Ludmilla began to notice that Tatyana would usually be given first crack at it. But she had to hurry. There were nearly 150 other people in their group jostling for a drink. Ludmilla would tell her, “Hurry, my Love. People are thirsty!” and Tatyana would grimace while she scooped out a couple handfuls of water to drink. Ludmilla would crowd in next to her and fend people off while she drank. Then Tatyana would cup her two hands together and scoop out some water for Ludmilla. After that it would usually descend into chaos as desperate prisoners would reach out for a drink as if it might be their last chance all day.
Even with horse saliva swirling around in the bucket or the stench of bacteria they drank it right up; and God help the last person who got a chance to drink! Whatever filth they might have had to ingest at the bottom of that dirty pale of water; Ludmilla tried not to think about. Her focus was exclusively on keeping herself and Tatyana alive. Anyone interfering with that mission was an enemy, regardless. That's just what everyone became on that long march for that matter: selfish and self-serving, all of them. Human compassion and justice were now a thing of the past. Both had been ripped away from these tortured frightened people, and it was now a matter of basic survival—regardless of whether there was any point in doing so.
When that awful first day of marching finally ended and the column stopped for the night; stomachs aching for nourishment gnawed at the poor haggard minds of nearly a hundred fifty thousand starving souls in that thirty-mile-long column of suffering people. Yet the Tatars wisely got themselves and their horses fed first. It may have seemed cruel, yes, but from a practical standpoint it made sense. Warriors needed to be fed so they could have energy to guard the prisoners. Horses had to be fed or they couldn’t transport the warriors. Prisoners and their comfort were easily the last of the Tatars’ priorities at the end of each day and though it seemed logical enough to Ludmilla, the rumbling in her and Tatyana’s tummies was the only thing that mattered. That first evening was truly a nightmare as they found themselves crying out and begging for food from their heartless captors who flung chunks of roasted horse meat at them like it was nothing more than slop to a pen full of hungry hogs.
Ludmilla reached up lightning fast, despite her exhaustion, and snatched a chunk of horse meat from the air when it was tossed toward Tatyana. Ludmilla knew if she didn’t grab it for her, Tatyana would never have caught it; and another prisoner would have reached over to intercept. Ludmilla grabbed it first though, and elbowed other prisoners away from her who tried to snare it. Then she held it up for Tatyana to take a bite from.
She sneered a bit at first, but soon crinkled her nose and took a dainty bite from it; frowning at the taste of the disgusting half-cooked flesh. Then Ludmilla bit off a big chunk of it and chomped it quickly, figuring the other prisoners would leave them alone now while they returned to begging for more meat scraps. Ludmilla said, “I know Darling. It’s horrible. But you’ve got to stay strong and this is meat…which we really need right now. Please dear, eat.” Tatyana nodded wincingly and bit off another chunk to chew up and swallow.
Eventually, the Tatars came around with another bucket of water and this time there was plenty for all. Ludmilla and Tatyana cried out with excitement when the water pails came by. Then they both drank as much as they possibly could before finally collapsing on the ground as darkness fell over their exposed encampment. Ludmilla huddled close to Tatyana that night, fearing that even after all they’d been through during the long horrendous march that day; a Tatar might try to come take Tatyana as it got dark. What could she do if that happened? Nothing of course; and nothing at all came to mind as a solution besides keeping her hidden, so that’s what Ludmilla did.
“Tatyana, Dear. Please cuddle up with me tightly tonight and try to cover your face. When it gets dark, I want you close to me, okay?” Ta
tyana nodded and blinked nervously. She’d certainly have no problems sleeping that night, if she at least knew she’d be safe from those awful heathens until morning. Truth was the Tatars were nearly just as tired too; and expecting at least as long of a march the next day no one bothered them. And so it went like that, day after day. Each morning they’d arise to the sound of whips cracking and Tatars screaming at prisoners to awaken and get moving. Each day they’d leave their camp and start marching, leaving the dead behind who’d simply not been able to wake up. Each day Tatyana and Ludmilla would slurp water from buckets of polluted water. Each afternoon, as the sun bore down on them, they’d pass by bodies on the side of the trail. Sometimes it would be an old man or woman. Sometimes it would be a young teenager; and it would break everyone's hearts. So many terrible things to see and then try forgetting them later. So many terrible things they’d never forget. It went on like that for another long, horrendous week.
* * * *
After they crossed the borderlands that separated Russia from the Wild Fields of the southern steppe, things did change a bit, though. Once inside their homeland, the Tatars changed their demeanor. Far less business-like and much more relaxed they were. Horses were set free to graze. Warriors began laughing and joking more, drinking their own family mixture of Kumis or sharing in another warrior’s leather bota bag filled with it.
Occasionally Ludmilla would see a prisoner hauled out of a nearby pack and taken away. Off in the distance, they might be heard screaming some time later, then they’d be led back to their original pack of prisoners holding their arm in pain. Ludmilla thought about this a while, then came to the conclusion that prisoners were being branded.
This went on all day, and well into the evening too. It petrified Ludmilla thinking of what it might mean for Tatyana! Sure, they’d brand Ludmilla, and she dreaded that. But her task was to protect her lover. Ludmilla ironically found herself looking around desperately for that scout commander, hoping he’d be around to intervene when Tatyana got hauled away! A burning iron touched to her skin was a horrifying proposition yes; but Tatyana was still very beautiful despite days and days of stinging sweat, greasy horse meat, dirty water, and trail dust. By Tatar standards she was more than appealing. Especially after months and months of campaigning—she’d seem like a tantalizing treat to those savages.
But by the end of the evening, it appeared that the branding operation was complete, at least for the time-being. Once again, meals were brought out and this time it was slightly better food. As Ludmilla and Tatyana savored a fist-sized ball of cooked white rice brought over to them on a big platter, Ludmilla gave it some thought. The Tatars had appeared to have been selective in their branding…but there was no apparent pattern to it. Sometimes it would be a woman, sometimes a man. Sometimes it was an older person, sometimes it was a teenager. Always they selected one or two at a time until they’d gathered up a big pack of several hundred which would be led away for an hour or two, then brought back holding their arms in pain. They’d repeat the process over and over. Grab another few hundred, take them to be branded, bring them back, then repeat. Up and down the long column of tens of thousands of prisoners this must have been going on, she assumed. Ludmilla wondered if this meant the Tatars were dividing up the captives among the different chieftains!
Next day, the branding operation continued, and the prisoners continued to sit and await their fates. But then a new problem arose: People weren’t allowed to move. Thus, they relieved themselves right where they sat, waiting for their turn to be branded. No one could get up or go anywhere. The crowds of prisoners in each group merely moved around to allow people room to do their business and if possible shift their location away from the offending waste. When they could not move anymore, they simply stomped their own foulness into the sod with their feet.
The smell became unimaginably offensive, especially in the summer afternoon heat. Ludmilla and Tatyana tried to ignore the growing stench and nap as often as possible during the day. It was hard to do, but Tatyana did manage to snatch brief periods of sleep that afternoon, especially after the sun began to set. Both Tatyana and Ludmilla gradually became inured to the screams and cries of people being branded, as though it were nothing more than a howling wind blowing across the steppe. Meanwhile that wind had both its drawbacks as well as its advantages! When it whipped around, it removed at least part of the smell of nearly a hundred fifty thousand prisoners. When it moved in a northerly or southerly direction, it moved the odor up and down the line; causing some to wretch.
However, the odor itself served yet another purpose. It drew insects by the millions! The fleas and flies of a couple hundred thousand horses swirled around the column of exhausted prisoners all day long in the sweltering heat; while they rubbed tired feet, stretched their legs and worked out sore muscles. But most of all they had to bat away swarms of excited flies wishing to feast on the bountiful buffet of human waste and stinking bodies. It took hardly any time to get used to them, really, but the blessing was that the Tatars stayed clear of the prisoners for almost the entire day! They’d merely go up and snatch a prisoner they wanted to take for branding, then they’d bring the anguished individual back to the group when done. Otherwise the guards kept their distance.
This was quite fortuitous, because it gave everyone a chance to talk with each other—as long as they kept their voices down and didn’t draw too much attention, that is. Because of this, Ludmilla found out a lot about her fellow prisoners and what they’d endured. Amidst all the tragedy—amidst all the death and constant danger—people among those groups of terrified captives eventually began to befriend one another.
It was tentative at first, but after a while people started introducing themselves and telling where they were from. They also began to trade stories about the raids and how they were captured.
Some of course remained quiet, isolated in their own little world of personal despair and dread. But gradually most everyone opened up. In the process, Ludmilla learned from some of her fellow captives what had happened to Moscow. In hushed whispers, people detailed the massive inferno that raged throughout the city and lit up the sky that night. Others told similar stories about other cities. Ludmilla asked specifically about Belgorod, and several in the group said they'd either fled from there or been captured nearby. Those who’d been captured at Belgorod were almost certain the castle citadel had not fallen however. They remembered the Tatars penetrating the outer neighborhoods into the town center but never venturing further or even getting within archer range of the castle ramparts. As for Bogdan the innkeeper, no one said they saw him. Ludmilla figured this could only mean he’d succeeded in bribing his way into the castle before the attack. Tatyana agreed. Her father likely went there right after Ludmilla and Tatyana had left the city.
What's more, Bogdan—being well over forty—would have been lucky to escape the Tatars, several prisoners in the group said. Many told stories about old people in their town being rounded up along with all the other villagers, only to have their throats cut.
“They simply had no use for them,” said one man. “Frankly, if the Tatars didn’t believe a person could survive the long march back, they didn’t bother with them.” Then he added darkly, “Same thing with young children. They didn’t keep many of those either.” People told stories about the fate of their children or those of a neighbor; but when anyone started to describe the atrocities they’d seen, another prisoner would inevitably caution them to spare the details, out of respect to those who’d lost children of their own.
Nevertheless, one male prisoner—a young man in his late teens—did tell a rather horrendous story about what had happened to his home town when a group of Turkish Bashi-Bazook raided his village. He’d initially avoided the slaughter by escaping in the dark of night to a small clump of trees outside the town; but from his hidden perch in an overgrown olive tree, he witnessed the depravity from a distance. He spoke in a low, ominous voice of his terrible ordeal.
> “From a distance I saw what they did to those poor people,” he confessed. “They were like animals, those men. I’ll never forget it. And there was nothing I could do.” People only nodded in agreement, assuring him he had nothing to be ashamed of. “I saw women dragged out into the open then forced to disrobe—and abused mercilessly if they resisted,” he said. “The men of the town were herded into a barn and held there for the night while the Turks ravaged our women. It was like the end of the world!”
The boy’s expression turned stone-like as he recalled the screaming, the crying, the begging, and the pleading which filled the night—as well as the smell of acrid smoke from burning buildings. “By morning, most of the town had been burned, and several people were lying dead in the streets. The Turks then bound up whatever survivors they could collect and herded them away in a long line of people.”
Practically no one had been spared. “Clothes were torn, faces bruised or bloodied—they looked horrified, almost all of them,” the young man continued. “Yet there were no little children! None to be seen anywhere—not from where I was hiding. But then, once the column of people marched away…thinking the Turks had departed,” he said, “I snuck back into the town to see for myself.” To his horror, he soon learned why he hadn't seen any youngsters among the prisoners leaving the town.
The young man, who was perhaps eighteen but very skinny, somewhat effeminate and rather frail, started to describe more but a few people near him gestured for him to skip over things a bit. That said, by the look on the young man’s face, it was apparently quite disturbing what he saw. The young man blinked and nodded acknowledgment when he saw the waving hand motions of some of the people in the group who knew full well what he was about to say.