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Honestly, I did not know what wrong I had committed. I had always tried to do the right thing, and now I was a slave. It sounded ridiculous. I knew that there were still countries where the population was subjected to forced labor and slavery, mainly due to a lack of industrial development, but I never imagined I would have to experience it firsthand.
For years I had been reduced to the condition of property in the hands of the Bulgarians. Several years had passed since we were captured, and although I had a family that did everything possible to spare me the misfortune of forced labor, sooner or later they began to make me work. Our owner did not want to waste money on me; otherwise, he would simply sell me at another market.
Soon I found myself carrying buckets of water across his lands, helping to plant seeds or dig furrows. Everything required an enormous effort from me. I did not know exactly how old I was, but it was obvious that I was small. As much as I wished to have more control over the situation, my parents could not help me in that regard; as expected, they were illiterate.
Apparently, the Bulgarians were not very different. There did not seem to be a standardized writing system. At best, I would find some kind of rune, if that was even what it was. Everything I learned of Bulgarian was spoken. Messengers did not carry letters; they transmitted orders aloud.
Our owner seemed to be one of those wealthy men who had benefited from the collapse of Greek defenses. That was all I could identify. I had to be somewhere in the Middle Ages. When the Bulgarians attacked the Greeks, that period could span several centuries, but judging by the armor they wore when I observed them—lamellar, and only among the better equipped—the timeframe narrowed considerably, perhaps between the years 750 and 1200.
Even so, no matter how much I tried to learn more, there was little I could do. I was confined to the facilities of the estate. Those who tried to escape had a hand or a foot cut off to prevent them from fleeing again, even if they could still work in some capacity.
My father often spoke of escaping, but fear always stopped him. We did not know where we were. I could orient myself by the stars, distinguish north from south and east from west by the rising sun, but beyond that I could not say with certainty where we were.
Hunger was a constant since our capture. The food we were given was hard barley bread, which we ate with a "soup" that was nothing more than hot water with a few vegetable scraps left over from the estate owner's meals.
Even so, no matter how much I wanted to do something, I could not. I had no choice but to lower my head and do what I was ordered, day after day. Until, on one of those endless days of unceasing labor, I was assigned to move large quantities of charcoal toward what appeared to be a forge.
Apparently, the owner had managed to buy a Greek blacksmith and had begun setting up a smithy near the estate. I was tasked with transporting the charcoal because most of the adults were busy with the harvest.
I spent long hours carrying it, moving carefully along the dirt paths of the estate, avoiding stepping on sharp stones while leaving small amounts of charcoal behind.
Over time, I began to observe how the blacksmith lit the furnace. The entire setup was extremely rudimentary. It reminded me of when I had first taken up blacksmithing as a hobby, when I did not want to spend too much money and built a small improvised forge, barely sufficient to learn how to hammer an axe blade and replace one that had broken.
The furnace was basic and, considering the available fuel, the best they could work with was iron. All the labor rested on the blacksmith. In my previous life I had owned a power hammer and, of course, had paid for an electric furnace that allowed me to work steel at high temperatures with relative ease. Here, by contrast, everything depended on the blacksmith's skill and his ability to maintain the heat. Perhaps, if he were good enough and managed to sustain high temperatures for the necessary time, he might produce something close to steel, though that was doubtful.
After several trips, with my arms blackened from carrying the charcoal, I began to feel the forge increasing in temperature until it reached what was barely tolerable. I could not say I was getting used to it, because that was not true. The heat was suffocating, and I had no resistance at all to the oppressive warmth that radiated from it.
When I finished moving all the charcoal, the blacksmith looked me up and down. He began to speak to me, though I struggled to understand what he was saying. Still, it was clear that he wanted me to work there when he threw a heavy leather apron at me.
"Bring water… and then…" said the blacksmith, though I did not fully understand the last part.
I obeyed. I began carrying buckets of water as the sound of hammering against metal started to fill the place. I drew three buckets from the well and carried them to the forge without stopping.
Soon after, the blacksmith began pointing at the bellows while speaking to me. Slowly, I started to learn a more complex vocabulary than the one I knew from my family. He pointed at objects and actions, and I deduced that many of the words corresponded to what he was indicating.
With my arms stiff and my legs weak, I had to find strength where there was none left. I spent hours working the bellows to keep the fire at its peak, enduring the heat while sweating without pause.
During that time, the blacksmith focused on producing long, heavy iron bars, hammering them relentlessly. He then passed them through a drawplate. The bars, glowing red-hot, were forced through the holes until they were stretched and elongated, turned into rods of a specific size. After cooling and inspecting them, we used a mandrel to turn them into rings. I watched as the blacksmith began cutting those rings with shears, one after another.
When the sun began to sink, I knew I had to return before my parents worried more than they already did.
"I need to go back," I said, looking at the blacksmith, who continued working, using the fire as his only source of light.
The blacksmith straightened up, stepped out of the smithy, and returned shortly after with a piece of bread, a few slices of dried meat, and a damp cloth so I could wipe some of the grime off myself.
I accepted everything with gratitude. If my memory did not fail me, I had not tasted meat for a very long time—or perhaps ever. I immediately put a piece in my mouth and felt the salty flavor my body desperately craved after all the physical exertion of the day.
I quickly ate most of the food he had given me. The moment I stopped focusing on what had happened, hunger struck me hard. It was a terrible, almost desperate hunger, an urge to devour everything. Even more so when I noticed the looks of other slaves in the area, watching me as I carried bread that was not rock-hard and pieces of dried meat.
When I arrived home, beyond my parents' concern—which was evident the moment they saw me walk in—they soon became alarmed by something else. It was when they noticed what I was offering them.
My father's eyes went wide, and he looked at me with obvious fear.
"Did you… steal it…? Did you steal it, Basil?" he said, repeating it several times until I managed to understand what he was asking.
I shook my head.
"Blacksmith," I replied, still unable to properly conjugate words, but I raised my arms and showed the charcoal stains covering parts of my body.
The tension on my father's face faded immediately. They did not hesitate to eat what I had brought them, and that gave me a quiet sense of satisfaction. At least I could help them in some way, considering how little—or nothing—I was truly able to do.
The dried meat was added to our usual leftover soup, which that time included a few legumes. For the first time, the soup tasted like something more than water. The salt from the meat came through with an almost overwhelming intensity in every sip.
Who would have thought I would feel so happy over a bit of salt in my food, considering how common it had once been in my time?
I could not help feeling a deep sense of nostalgia. Even though I had learned to lock away my memories to avoid that feeling, food was something difficult to forget.
That night, I fell asleep with a full stomach for the first time in many years.
I woke up early, as usual. My body ached, also as usual—though this time more than normal due to the enormous physical effort of the previous day.
At the start of the day, we ate the leftovers from the night before. As we were preparing to go out to work, before any guard could drag us out by force, I heard voices outside the hut. Guards were waiting.
"This one, right?" said one of the Bulgarians, dressed in a sort of padded jacket covered with animal furs, pointing at me.
His companion, wearing lamellar armor, nodded and grabbed me by my clothes, dragging me away without care.
I heard my mother scream and saw my father shouting at the guards as well.
My heart began to pound. For a moment, I thought they had sold me.
The Bulgarian in lamellar armor spoke the words "forge" and "blacksmith" in Greek. When I heard them, my parents seemed to calm down a little. Even so, they took me away by force, gripping my torn and ragged clothes.
They brought me to the forge, where the blacksmith already seemed to have begun his work. There were several children there, all Bulgarians, and their gazes fixed on me the moment I entered.
Once again, I was made to continue working as an assistant at the forge.
I soon noticed that most of them could not keep up the pace. They tired quickly or began to cry from the effort. The blacksmith was visibly annoyed with them; he dismissed them without hesitation, and it did not take long before another child arrived to replace them.
While some were tasked with moving the charcoal and working the bellows, I was assigned to work with the mandrel and cutting the rings. It was a task far less physically demanding than the others.
And it did not take long for that to become apparent.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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