Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 20

The men were wearing high conical felt hats; felted waistcoats of a sort, the backs of which were longer than the front; breeches, long or short, evidently of wool. The long, wide ones were tucked into the men’s boots; leather straps were wound around the legs in the manner of puttees. The men were also brandishing long spears and holding bows and quivers; some of the men had battle axes, the handles stuck into their belts. The men formed an agitated crowd, some shouting, some singing; all of them brandishing their arms, as though threatening someone.

The women were standing in a separate group from the men; they were wearing long linen dresses and were draped in long cloaks with wide folds; their headgear was very tall. Some had what looked to be shawls on their heads. Men and women alike were garbed mainly in linen, but there was also a lot of wool and leather to be seen. The women were singing the same song, but in a more subdued manner. And all of them were looking in the direction of a large procession which was approaching in a cloud of dust. It was difficult to make out any details of the procession through the dust, but it was clear that a big mounted party was approaching with a group of people moving haltingly and tiredly on foot.

Artem felt Lida grasping his hand. He turned to look at her. She was about to ask something, but at that moment, the voice of Dmitro Borisovich, brimming with excitement, could be heard:

“Scythians! My friends, these people are Scythians, real Scythians! What we see in front of,us is a temporary camp of the ancient nomadic Scythians!”

“Not so loud!” Ivan Semenovich cut him short.

For a moment Artem was distracted from the exotic sight. He turned his head to look at Dmitro Borisovich, trying to comprehend the words he had just heard. Scythians?… An ancient Scythian camp? Was Dmitro Borisovich making fun of them? Scythians living in this underground world in the 20th century?

One glance at the archeologist, though, was enough to convince anyone that the man meant what he had said: there was not a trace of frivolity in his demeanor; he had evidently been much taken by the things that were going on in the field. He was panting; his fingers kept nervously picking pieces of bark from the tree; his eyes were feasting on the singing people and the approaching procession. He kept adjusting the spectacles that slithered down his nose periodically.

Artem turned back to Lida. “Did you hear him?” he asked in a very low voice.

Lida nodded without saying anything.

“Scythians?… Can you make any sense of all this?”

Lida shrugged her shoulders: it was clear she understood as little as Artem.

Meanwhile, the procession was getting closer and closer. Apparently, the solemn song was in honor of the procession. It had-already been welcomed by a rain of arrows, shot upward into the gloomy gray sky, accompanied by frenzied shouts. The arrows were landing in the forest; it was probably one of the arrows from a previous volley that had strayed far enough to be picked up by the four explorers.

Several men stepped out of the crowd to meet the procession. They were evidently people of some rank, for their dress was embellished with gold ornaments, and they carried no weapons except for short swords and ceremonial axes. One of them, an old man with gray hair and a long beard wearing a robe very much like a woman’s dress, raised his hands and shouted something in a hoarse voice. The crowd and the procession responded immediately with similar shouts. Then the old man turned around, raised his hand in a salute before the peculiar object of twigs and branches the explorers had noticed earlier.

“It must be their sacrificial altar,” Artem whispered excitedly.

“Yes, it looks like the Scythian altar was made of twigs!” Dmitro Borisovich replied no less excitedly.

The procession was now quite close, and the first rows of riders could be seen in detail. They were well armed, carrying rectangular shields of hide and studded with ornamental bronze figures of animals. The higher ranking riders — which fact could be determined by their more elaborate clothing — carried round shields with an oval cut into the top for a face.

But Artem’s attention had already focused on the strikingly looking horseman.

He was a burly, dignified man with a long gray beard, sitting majestically on his elaborately festooned steed, holding the reins in one hand, the other resting on the golden hilt of his short sword. On his head was a round golden helmet; shining gold ornaments adorned his dress: a heavy pendant of plaited gold wire on his chest; a bracelet on the wrist of the hand holding the reins — everything pointed to his being a man of highest rank. Several younger riders moving right behind him were holding the shiny figures above his head. There were panthers, deer, leaping lions and eagles with their wings spread perched on long spears. The distinguished rider was looking straight ahead, sitting in great dignity and stateliness on his brown mount, not paying attention to anything or anyone around him.

“He must be the chieftain of the tribe… the supreme leader…” Artem heard the voice of Dmitro Borisovich, muffled with excitement. “He’s returning from a raid with his fellow Scythians. It’s incredible to be seeing such a thing with my own eyes!”

“Shh… Shh…” Ivan Semenovich again cut him short. “Be quiet!”

The old man who had earlier stepped out of the crowd, made a few more steps toward the riders, without lowering his raised arms. When there were only a few steps separating him and the chieftain, the latter stopped his horse with an almost imperceptible movement of his hand. All the other riders immediately stopped, too. Only those on foot continued moving, drawing nearer.

The old man with raised hands cried out something in a gutteral voice, probably, words of welcome. The riders responded with shouts of greeting. Axes and swords flashed in the air; the figures of lions, eagles and panthers stirred above the head of the chieftain. The only person who remained immobile and silent was the chieftain who, in the same detached and aloof manner sat astride horse, his hand on the hilt of the sword.

The old man, his arms still raised, cried out something once again, drawing discordant shouting in response from both the riders and the crowd. It was only then that the chieftain seemed to awaken; he made an imperious gesture with his hand as though beckoning someone to come up to him.

A young man, also richly attired, stepped out from the crowd around the altar. His face bore some resemblance to the chieftain’s, but differed in that it was obnoxious, suspicious and insincere. The young man did not walk in a straightforward manner — there was something crablike in his gait. His right shoulder was hunched forward. The mounted chieftain lowered his head a little as though taking a better look at the young man, but his face remained impassive, with no expression of greeting or recognition.

The young man drew closer and made obeisance to the chieftain who stared motionlessly at him. The people around them grew quiet. The young man gave the chieftain a sidelong glance as though he feared a sudden blow. But the chieftain only waved his hand in dismissal and turned away. The young man, as if he had expected this to happen, ran aside and stopped, still looking timidly at the rider in the gold helmet.

Then the chieftain looked back for the first time. A rider immediately rushed to his side — he must have been waiting for this sign all along. The chieftain made a lazy raking movement with his hand; the rider turned his horse around and galloped back, shouting something.

Artem, highly intrigued by these maneuvers, shifted a little to be closer to Dmitro Borisovich, and asked in a barely audible voice:

“What is it they’re shouting? What language is it?” Without turning his head, the archeologist answered, also under his breath:

“It must be Scythian.”

“Do you understand it?”

“Of course not.”

“Why? You don’t know it?”

“No one knows Scythian… but wait, there’s…”

“You two, shut up, will you?” Ivan Semenovich stopped them sharply, giving them a stern look.

About a dozen riders were driving a group of people forward. The folks in this group were very different in appearance from the riders and crowd that had been waiting for the procession.

First, their dress differed; they were wearing various kinds of clothing; some had the same type of waistcoats but wore cloaks on top. Others were bareheaded, whereas all the riders and those in the crowd waiting by the altar had either helmets or hats on.

The group on foot looked exhausted. They were walking slowly, dragging their feet; some were limping, their heads bent. No one dared to raise his head; some glanced back in alarm each time one of the riders prodded them with a spear or simple charged them with their mounts.

“They’re captives, aren’t they?”

They were undoubtedly captives, several dozen of them, captured elsewhere by the cavalry and driven here on foot.

The old man who had been standing all this time before the altar with arms raised, viewed the captives with interest. For a short time, he lost his solemn, dignified air, even turning to the chieftain with some question. But the chieftain did not reply. He probably had not heard for he did not even turn his head in the other’s direction. The old man by the altar made a wry face, and, probably to hide it, he bent over.the altar right away.

Artem heard Dmitro Borisovich say in the voice of a man greatly nonplussed by what he was witnessing: