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Apparently, the Bulgarian children did not like at all that I had been given the easiest job of all. Even though it was still physically and mentally demanding, it did not compare to spending hours hauling charcoal, carrying buckets of water, or endlessly working the bellows to keep the fire alive.
Still, as I produced dozens of rings per minute and the blacksmith continued working without interruption, nothing happened immediately. However, the stares directed at me grew more intense, especially as the blacksmith kept throwing children out of the smithy for disobeying orders, making mistakes, or complaining too much. He cared only about the work.
After filling several sacks solely with rings, the blacksmith began to pierce them. He used his hammer along with a sharpened piece of iron, striking with precision until he opened the necessary holes so they could later be joined.
We continued like this for hours, until midday arrived. Then the blacksmith began to distribute food. It was a kind of lamb stew, with a few ribs from the animal and a simple mixture of vegetables.
After so many hours of labor, it felt extraordinary to be able to eat something, even if it was poorly seasoned. That minimal flavor was a blessing, considering that the usual alternative was watery, tasteless food.
The meat from the stew went to those who had worked best. Three Bulgarians from the group ate better than the rest. I was given a little more than the others, included among those who had performed best that day, receiving a rib and a half instead of just one.
As soon as we finished eating, we immediately returned to work. Once the blacksmith had produced an enormous number of pierced rings, he moved me to another station. Now it was my task to join them and set the rivets.
After a quick demonstration by the blacksmith, I began to work. I joined four solid rings with one pierced ring and riveted them, forming the pattern of a five-ring mail, using crude pliers. My task was to produce as many of these connections as I could.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Bulgarians slowly began to redistribute themselves. One replaced me at the mandrel, forming new rings from the iron bars, while another took charge of cutting them one by one. I stayed focused on joining rings alongside another group, advancing pattern after pattern.
The blacksmith returned his attention to the heavy labor, producing more iron to continue that long, repetitive process.
From time to time he stopped to watch me and tried to give me instructions about the pattern, but on several occasions he simply stood there scratching his head as he observed my work, because the task was not unfamiliar to me. In my previous life I had made several suits of mail. Even so, making them by hand and alone had taken months.
As dusk began to fall, a Bulgarian arrived whom I recognized immediately. He was the man who had bought us. I felt a violent impulse, an almost instinctive urge to take a ring, straighten it, and drive it into his throat. But I knew that would gain me nothing. It would only lead to my parents being killed—parents who had done everything they could to protect me. I could not repay them that way for all they had done for me.
The blacksmith began taking the man's measurements with a knotted cord, adjusting it carefully to accurately measure the Bulgarian's body as he worked. I continued working without stopping until the blacksmith placed several knotted cords in front of me, pointing out what he needed in length and width for the arms.
I quickly went back to joining rings, riveting without pause and slowly expanding the sheet of iron. After several hundred rings had been joined, I managed to complete a substantial section of the forearm. The blacksmith took it and fitted it onto the owner of the place. It seemed to fit him perfectly.
Seeing me, the owner narrowed his eyes and began speaking to the blacksmith in Greek.
"What is this slave doing here? I told you I wanted you to train local youths, not a slave. They are only meant to work my fields," said the Bulgarian, though many of his words still escaped me.
"He is an exemplary apprentice. He does not complain, learns quickly, and has talent—far better than these apprentices," the blacksmith replied, pointing at the other children. "In a couple of years you will have another good armor smith."
The owner kept watching me. I felt an itch in my hands as I held his gaze.
"Better for me," he finally replied in Bulgarian.
The blacksmith continued taking measurements, cutting cords until he had everything needed for the mail: torso, neck, arms, and shoulders. When he finished, the owner left and we kept working. I continued joining ring after ring, making noticeable progress on the forearm.
As evening fell, the blacksmith handed out food again. I was fortunate enough to receive a piece of roasted pork along with two loaves of bread that were still warm, fresh from the oven. With that, the day's work ended.
That day had been lighter than the previous one. I had not been assigned the heaviest labor, though my arms still ached from constantly using the pliers to cut and join rings.
"Slave," one of the boys said, looking at me with hatred.
When I looked at him, I noticed that several of the youths were staring at me. I knew all too well what they wanted to do, so I simply began to walk.
"Hey, slave… Roman… I'm talking to you," I heard behind me as I quickened my pace toward where I was supposed to return.
I turned just enough to see that they were trying to follow me, but their legs were trembling from exhaustion after the day's work. They could not keep up, and before long they gave up the chase.
So several days passed, and I suppose months as well, as the seasons moved on and the cold began to return. For the first time, I was grateful to work in a forge—because while outside the cold was merciless, inside the heat was constant.
Only a few unfortunate ones had to work outdoors during the winter. On one occasion it was my father and my mother, forced to carry buckets of water for the horses or perform similar tasks, while the freezing wind slipped through the holes in their worn clothing.
As for me, the Bulgarians tried on several occasions to lock me up or beat me, but I was faster than they were—or at least more resilient when moving along the stony paths of the estate.
My status within the smithy seemed to have solidified as the blacksmith's assistant. Before long, he began teaching me how to use the anvil and the hammer. Arthritis would be terrible in time, considering the constant use of the hammer, but there was no alternative.
As the blacksmith trusted me more, my situation improved. I ate better, and I was given shoes so I could move around the smithy without having to go barefoot.
I learned how to make nails and repair our tools, although my main task continued to be joining rings. The blacksmith considered my work in that area to be on par with his own, so he could entrust it to me without constant supervision. I was even given more freedom of movement, allowed to go to the nearby forest if I had free time.
After those months, we finally managed to finish the custom-made mail shirt. It was a good piece—solid and well worked—meant to protect the life of the bastard who owned me as property.
With that done, we began producing several mail shirts for some of his guards, restarting the long work process over and over again. This time, however, progress was faster. A stable work group had finally formed in the smithy, with tasks clearly divided, which significantly increased production speed. Even so, the resentment toward me remained high, especially because I occupied the position of greatest trust.
On several occasions, I began making nails disappear. I took them to the forest and sharpened them with stones, shaping them until I obtained something resembling a crude dagger. I used pieces of wood as handles, secured with leftover cord. If I ever wanted to escape, I needed at least a weapon—even a rudimentary one—to obtain something better later.
So whenever I could, I slipped a nail into my clothes and later hid it in the forest, placing it inside a hollow tree where no one else would find it.
On one of those cold days, the blacksmith finished work earlier than usual. He ordered me to clean everything and leave the smithy in order. We did it quickly, he distributed the food as usual, and with everything ready, I headed back home. I noticed how some Bulgarians tried to approach me again, but I had already left them behind.
When I arrived, I left the food I had been given and, with the nail hidden among my clothes, went toward the forest within the limits allowed by the guards. They saw me pass and said nothing as I disappeared among the trees.
Once inside, I took out everything I needed to continue making daggers. You could never have enough of them. They were crude weapons: uncomfortable handles, blades that were nothing more than sharpened nails. Still, it was better than nothing.
Using one of the sharpened nails, I began carving a proper handle, trying to give it a shape as ergonomic as possible for the hand.
Then I heard footsteps approaching. I quickly hid everything inside the hollow of the tree and looked up. One of the Bulgarian apprentices had followed me.
"I finally found you, shit slave… now you're not getting away," he said with rage.
Without thinking, I ran. I did not want a fight so close to the place where I hid my tools for freedom.
I ran back toward the estate, but this time they managed to catch me. They shoved me to the ground.
"I've got you, damn coward…" he said between breaths as we fell.
I turned immediately and, without wasting time, struck his nose with the palm of my hand. I did not hear the crack I would have expected, but I felt him release his grip on me.
I took advantage of the moment, pushed him off, and ran again. I could not imagine the punishment they would give me if they saw me involved in a fight.
I returned to the estate furious. I cursed the idiot who had ruined a day in which I could have finished something decent. I went to sleep without another thought.
But I could not.
When I arrived home to eat with my family, the guards came for us. I saw the bastard who had attacked me, his clothes stained with blood. Apparently, I had indeed made his nose bleed. Beside him stood his father, furious, while the boy kept his head down.
Everything suggested they wanted to punish me and make an example of it.
My stomach tightened when I saw one of the guards bring out a whip.
Another guard tore the upper part of my clothing off and began tying me to a post. Just as I was bracing myself to receive the punishment, my father fell to his knees and, through tears, begged the guards to let him take the lashes in my place.
After looking at one another for a long time, they accepted.
They stripped him and tied him to the post without hesitation.
I clenched my teeth as I watched him receive two lashes. I heard his screams of pain and felt something break inside me.
When I turned my gaze toward the Bulgarian apprentice, I saw an expression of satisfaction on his face. But when our eyes met, he seemed to realize something. His expression changed. He became afraid.
That idiot was dead.
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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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