Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 21

“He’s a soothsayer! A Scythian soothsayer! He doesn’t look androgyne though… I can’t believe my own eyes!”

The captives were ordered to halt before the altar. The riders, spears and axes ready, pressed the captives, who made no attempt to resist, into a closer huddle. Once again the song of triumph soared to the sky along with another volley of sharp arrows. The captives shrank in fear as the arrows whizzed just above their heads.

The old soothsayer walked away from the altar. He again raised his hands into the air and mumbled something, probably a prayer. Abruptly breaking off in the middle of a word, he addressed the chieftain solemnly, pointing to the captives with his hand. Apparently the soothsayer was demanding something. The chieftain turned to look at him, his face acquiring a sterner expression, his hand gripping the hilt tighter. But the next instant he spoke quietly and imperiously. He said only a few words but that was enough:

he obviously agreed with the soothsayer; he did not contradict him. The soothsayer stood straighter, looking haughty and jubilant.

At the sign of the chieftain, two riders picked two men and one woman from the group of captives, huddled by the altar. They seemed to have deliberately picked the most exhausted captives who could barely stand. The three, prodded by the riders, went submissively and without resistance to the soothsayer; even the way they walked showed that they had stopped caring about anything. The soothsayer, displeased with something, stared at them, his hands curled into fists.

For the first time, an open and frank smile appeared on the face of the chieftain in the gold helmet. His warriors smiled, too. The soothsayer was standing motionless at the altar, staring at the captives in a rage, his dry, angular face twisted into a grimace, his lips moving in nervous jerks. Then he shifted his gaze to the chieftain who seemed to be watching the soothsayer’s every movement. The soothsayer was about to say something, but then changed his mind, and turned back to the altar.

’’What’s going on here?” Artem asked in a low voice. “Are they at war with each other?”

But he fell silent the moment he felt the angry stare of the implacable Ivan Semenovich.

The chieftain let fall a few short phrases, pointing at the old soothsayer, his remarks evoking loud laughter from the warriors. This guffawing was too much for the soothsayer — it drove him into a frenzy. He made a swift step toward the chieftain and began speaking furiously, alternately pointing to himself, at the altar, and at the three captives who had been led up to him. He waved his arms frenziedly. Abruptly he stopped and pointed skywards. There was a menacing edge to his hoarse voice.

“He’s dissatisfied with the captives he’s been given and threatens the wrath of the gods for such a pitiful offering,” Artem heard Lida’s voice. “Is that it, Dmitro Borisovich?”

“Looks like it. But — ssh! Let’s see what happens next.” The archeologist was completely absorbed in what was going on before their eyes.

The soothsayer fell silent, still pointing to the skies. Then the firm voice of the chieftain rang out, which sounded like an imperious command in the utter silence. The chieftain said only a few words, but they were sufficient. The sooth sayer seemed to shrink, his arrogance disappearing almost without a trace. He squeezed out a few indistinct words of reply, listlessly turned to the altar and beckoned to someone to come over to him.

Three burly women, wearing linen dresses embroidered with gold thread, came forward holding daggers in their hands. Bronze ornaments were dangling from their felt hats; the sharp-pointed daggers were drawn. The soothsayer pointed to the captives beside the altar, who could barely stand on their feet. The three armed women immediately approached them, daggers at the ready, and grabbed them by the hands. The next moment they were dragging them to the base of the altar. A desperate wailing rose to the sky. Exhausted as the captives were, they sensed the mortal danger, and began resisting. But what chance did they have against the burly armed women, these haggard, weary captives?

“It’s disgusting!” The indignation broke from Lida. “These women helping the repulsive soothsayer!”

Dmitro Borisovich murmured to himself as though he had never heard Lida’s indignant words.

“Yes, yes, that’s how it should be! Scythian women were the priests! Women, not men, yes, that’s how it was. It’s strange though that the high priest, this soothsayer, is not a woman but an old man, albeit wearing a woman’s dress… Priest he is, but why male?”

“Ssh!” Ivan Semenovich stopped the archeologist once again.

Meanwhile, the chieftain was silently watching the goings on at the altar, his face impassive, wearing no definite expression. His warriors were also silent. The only sounds were those of the captive woman wailing as she was dragged to the altar and the muffled murmur of the crowd.

“They want to kill her!” Lida said heatedly.

“To sacrifice her!” Artem cried out in no lesser state of indignation, quite forgetting the necessity of keeping his voice down.

“Ssh! Shush!” they heard the arresting voice of Ivan Semenovich from behind his tree.

But this time Artem was loath to obey the order as he had done before. He burst into an impassioned plea:

“Ivan Semenovich, we can’t just watch this! We mustn’t! We must interfere, we must help them, save them!”

“But there are only four of us, Artem!”

“It makes no difference! We cannot simply remain detached, impassive observers!” Artem grabbed the handle of his pickaxe in a determined manner.

“It’s insane, Artem! I command you…”

But it was already too late: Artem had sprung forward, his figure standing out boldly against the background of reddish tree trunks. He was noticed immediately. Several riders took off in a gallop toward him, spears held high. Piercing whistling and shouting resounded in the air.

The explorers were surrounded in no time — the archeologist barely had time to move from where he was standing; Lida and Ivan Semenovich had taken but a single step after Artem. One look at the riders sufficed to bring home the realization that any resistance would be futile. The spears were poised to strike, the battle axes held high in the air. But the Scythians did not use their weapons. They exchanged remarks, evidently puzzled by the unusual appearance of the strangers. At last one of the riders said something in a commanding tone. Some of the riders began pushing the explorers forward with the buts of their spears.

“Oh, you, stop it, damn you!” Artem bellowed furiously at them.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to submit, my friends,” Ivan Semenovich said in a low, resigned voice. “Now we’re captives, too.”

“Ivan Semenovich, it’s me who’s to blame! I’m so sorry,” Artem said, turning to the geologist, as the awful realization of what he had done dawned upon him.

“It doesn’t matter now, Artem. Besides, if you hadn’t done it, I would have done it myself,” Ivan Semenovich confessed. Artem saw that the older man was sincere.

The riders began prodding the explorers with the sharp points of their spears. The riders were on all sides, so there was nothing else to do but walk toward the crowd of Scythians, the chieftain, and the captives…

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

The explorers puzzle over the word poskina, and Artem duels with the old soothsayer; Dmitro Borisovich discovers that he can communicate with the Scythians and acts as an interpreter in the chieftain’s tent where the guests are treated to oksugala.

Dmitro Borisovich shrugged his shoulders:

“Well, if we must submit and go where they take us, we must. I wouldn’t say it’s the best way to get to know the way of life of the ancient Scythians… But…” He pulled his trilby hat which had miraculously survived all their misadventures down low over his eyes. “But it appears we have no choice… Hey, what are you up to?”

One of the riders, obviously having taken an interest in the very unusual — from his point of view — piece of headgear that the archeologist was wearing, had plucked it from his head with the spear and raised it into the air, demonstrating it to the others. This caused a brief but lively exchange among the riders.

It was Diana that changed the mood: she, taking offense on behalf of her friend, leaped into the air, growling threateningly. Zooming through the air, the boxer clasped the spear with the archeologist’s hat perched on it between her massive jaws with strong teeth and snapped it in two as if it were a straw. A muffled crunching sound could be heard; the trilby fell to the ground. The rider had some difficulty regaining control of his frightened horse that reared and pranced. The rider himself was also somewhat unnerved by the sudden attack, and he neither tried to prevent it nor did he attempt to inflict any punishment.

Diana meanwhile jumped back to the explorers’ sides, crouched, and bared her teeth, ready to fight for her friends. Dmitro Borisovich retrieved his trilby from the ground and clamped it on, muttering offendedly: