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Life in the Dungeon
Anna Hatun, former leader of the Ottoman armies lay face down on the prisoncell floor. Her assailant had cut her ropes before he left, but it was still dark and she felt little desire to move. The dirt floor was soft and slightly chilled, but at the moment that was better than the thought of moving. She felt the drying mud on her face, sweat and tears of pain had mixed with the dirt floor. She did not care to brush it away, instead she tried to focus her mind on somewhere else, cheerful memories. She had few. Her recent experience seemed to return in her mind to taunt her. Again and again the assault in the dark kept interfering with her attempts to free her mind. Was this part of Igor's torture? Or was it just some perverted perk for her jailor? She had expected it to some extent. Russian soldiers were not known for their kindness to captives. This was nothing unusual in the age, certain armies even advertised such activities as the rightful prerogative of victorious armies. A great motivator for the boys. She felt nauseous by the thought of it. She would not let their barbarism break her. She felt pain, but the pain she could suffer through. It was her mind that they were attempting to destroy. She considered if she would have been better off taking the man's offer of quick death. No, she would not be broken. They could inflict any attack on her body, but she would not allow them to touch her mind. Defiance was her only weapon, her only remaining strength, they would not be allowed to take it from her. She would not waiver or falter. Either she would survive in the dungeon or die with pride.
The door opened. Her heart stopped for a second, then started hammering furiously. Her body reacted with panic. Had he returned to abuse her again? Was this King Igor's men coming to take her to torture or trial? Her mind raced, but she maintained her cool. Lying still for a second she carefully gathered dirt in her right hand, ready to throw it in the face of her captor should she get the opportunity. If she could distract him shortly, perhaps he had a weapon she could take. If escape was impossible, killing the bastard that had raped her would certainly award her with a moment of vengeance, even satisfaction. She turned her head slightly to view the doorway, to see what was happening. Again the light was strong compared to the utter blackness of the room, but this time the person entering the room carried a torch. The door was closed again, but the torch gave a soft flickering light that allowed her eyes to adjust and see shapes and forms again for the first time in what she felt must be weeks in the dark.
As her eyes adjusted she saw a blurred shape carrying something darkish in one hand, torch in the other. The figure was small and unassuming. Was this him? A puny little man? She felt a glimmer of haughty contempt for the pitiful creature that he must be. But as the image grew clearer she saw that it was not a man. An old woman was standing still in front of the door, holding a bucket in her hand. Anna Hatun slowly rolled over on her side and pushed herself up to a half-sitting position. The old woman wore a traditional Hairy Hastogian Priestess dress. When the woman saw Anna move, she took a few steps and placed the torch in a torchholder protruding from the wall. As the old nun came closer, Anna saw that the bucket was filled with bubbly water. Without a word the woman put her hand in the bucket, pulled up a scrub brush, grabbed Anna's dirty arm and started scrubbing it. Anna pulled away from the strange situation, but the sinewy strength of the old woman stopped her withdrawal, and the pain in her body made clear that she was in no condition to fight. Sitting still while the old woman systematically scrubbed the dirt of her arm, Anna's mind was in complete chaos. First torture, then a clean-up? Was this a prison or a madhouse? The nun continued to scrub, pulling off the remaining rags of Anna's clothing to get at her shoulders, then back. The old woman was not gentle and the rough brush hurt, yet the scraping pain, removing the encrusted dirt felt cleansing in a near liberating way.
Feeling she needed to change the absurdity of the situation, being scrubbed like a child in a bath, Anna spoke to the priestess. Her throat was parched, but she swallowed and said in a cracked voice.
-I can wash myself, give me the brush and I will do it.
The old woman completely ignored her and kept scrubbing her back, occasionally plunging the brush into the bucket. The old woman then grabbed Anna's arm and hoisted her up on her feet. Afterwards she started on the front, when Anna protested the old woman slapped her across the face with surprising force. Dumbstruck Anna stood back against the stone wall, holding her cheek as the old woman scrubbed her front and continued to ignore any sense of personal space.
The woman finished cleaning as far down as the knees, then took a towel lying across her shoulder and started drying off the wet skin, now quite red from the rough treatment of the scrub. The towel was not more comfortable.
The old woman then emptied the bucket into a small corner pit, took the scrub, bucket and towel, then left. The torch remained on the wall. Anna looked around her prison cell for the first time. It stretched 5 steps in one direction and 8 in the other. In the middle of the room the floor was dirt, but the floor reaching out 1 step from the brick walls was stone. In one corner was a pile of hay, in the other was the small drainage pit. As she was looking around, the door opened again. Once more her heart stopped then raced. The old priestess returned and effectively placed on the floor a wooden pitcher of water, a bowl of corn, rice and bread, and finally a blanket. The door closed again and Anna was alone once more. She hobbled over to the corner where the food was and drank desperately. She did not know for how long she had been imprisoned, but thought she had not been fed for days. She ate and drank most of her food and water, deciding to save a little for later. Taking the blanket she sat down on the hay in the corner and tried to warm herself. She began to memorize the structure of the room. She continued to do so for another hour when the torch suddenly burned out. The room was pitch dark once more.
Anna Hatun, former leader of the Ottoman armies lay face down on the prisoncell floor. Her assailant had cut her ropes before he left, but it was still dark and she felt little desire to move. The dirt floor was soft and slightly chilled, but at the moment that was better than the thought of moving. She felt the drying mud on her face, sweat and tears of pain had mixed with the dirt floor. She did not care to brush it away, instead she tried to focus her mind on somewhere else, cheerful memories. She had few. Her recent experience seemed to return in her mind to taunt her. Again and again the assault in the dark kept interfering with her attempts to free her mind. Was this part of Igor's torture? Or was it just some perverted perk for her jailor? She had expected it to some extent. Russian soldiers were not known for their kindness to captives. This was nothing unusual in the age, certain armies even advertised such activities as the rightful prerogative of victorious armies. A great motivator for the boys. She felt nauseous by the thought of it. She would not let their barbarism break her. She felt pain, but the pain she could suffer through. It was her mind that they were attempting to destroy. She considered if she would have been better off taking the man's offer of quick death. No, she would not be broken. They could inflict any attack on her body, but she would not allow them to touch her mind. Defiance was her only weapon, her only remaining strength, they would not be allowed to take it from her. She would not waiver or falter. Either she would survive in the dungeon or die with pride.
The door opened. Her heart stopped for a second, then started hammering furiously. Her body reacted with panic. Had he returned to abuse her again? Was this King Igor's men coming to take her to torture or trial? Her mind raced, but she maintained her cool. Lying still for a second she carefully gathered dirt in her right hand, ready to throw it in the face of her captor should she get the opportunity. If she could distract him shortly, perhaps he had a weapon she could take. If escape was impossible, killing the bastard that had raped her would certainly award her with a moment of vengeance, even satisfaction. She turned her head slightly to view the doorway, to see what was happening. Again the light was strong compared to the utter blackness of the room, but this time the person entering the room carried a torch. The door was closed again, but the torch gave a soft flickering light that allowed her eyes to adjust and see shapes and forms again for the first time in what she felt must be weeks in the dark.
As her eyes adjusted she saw a blurred shape carrying something darkish in one hand, torch in the other. The figure was small and unassuming. Was this him? A puny little man? She felt a glimmer of haughty contempt for the pitiful creature that he must be. But as the image grew clearer she saw that it was not a man. An old woman was standing still in front of the door, holding a bucket in her hand. Anna Hatun slowly rolled over on her side and pushed herself up to a half-sitting position. The old woman wore a traditional Hairy Hastogian Priestess dress. When the woman saw Anna move, she took a few steps and placed the torch in a torchholder protruding from the wall. As the old nun came closer, Anna saw that the bucket was filled with bubbly water. Without a word the woman put her hand in the bucket, pulled up a scrub brush, grabbed Anna's dirty arm and started scrubbing it. Anna pulled away from the strange situation, but the sinewy strength of the old woman stopped her withdrawal, and the pain in her body made clear that she was in no condition to fight. Sitting still while the old woman systematically scrubbed the dirt of her arm, Anna's mind was in complete chaos. First torture, then a clean-up? Was this a prison or a madhouse? The nun continued to scrub, pulling off the remaining rags of Anna's clothing to get at her shoulders, then back. The old woman was not gentle and the rough brush hurt, yet the scraping pain, removing the encrusted dirt felt cleansing in a near liberating way.
Feeling she needed to change the absurdity of the situation, being scrubbed like a child in a bath, Anna spoke to the priestess. Her throat was parched, but she swallowed and said in a cracked voice.
-I can wash myself, give me the brush and I will do it.
The old woman completely ignored her and kept scrubbing her back, occasionally plunging the brush into the bucket. The old woman then grabbed Anna's arm and hoisted her up on her feet. Afterwards she started on the front, when Anna protested the old woman slapped her across the face with surprising force. Dumbstruck Anna stood back against the stone wall, holding her cheek as the old woman scrubbed her front and continued to ignore any sense of personal space.
The woman finished cleaning as far down as the knees, then took a towel lying across her shoulder and started drying off the wet skin, now quite red from the rough treatment of the scrub. The towel was not more comfortable.
The old woman then emptied the bucket into a small corner pit, took the scrub, bucket and towel, then left. The torch remained on the wall. Anna looked around her prison cell for the first time. It stretched 5 steps in one direction and 8 in the other. In the middle of the room the floor was dirt, but the floor reaching out 1 step from the brick walls was stone. In one corner was a pile of hay, in the other was the small drainage pit. As she was looking around, the door opened again. Once more her heart stopped then raced. The old priestess returned and effectively placed on the floor a wooden pitcher of water, a bowl of corn, rice and bread, and finally a blanket. The door closed again and Anna was alone once more. She hobbled over to the corner where the food was and drank desperately. She did not know for how long she had been imprisoned, but thought she had not been fed for days. She ate and drank most of her food and water, deciding to save a little for later. Taking the blanket she sat down on the hay in the corner and tried to warm herself. She began to memorize the structure of the room. She continued to do so for another hour when the torch suddenly burned out. The room was pitch dark once more.
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