Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 36

The archeologist was right: it was easy to recognize the characteristic curve of the shinbone; the size was right too.

“The dirt road has ended,” Artem said abruptly. “From now on we’ll probably be walking right through the steppe. See how tall the grass is all around.”

The circle of the riders around the explorers widened, probably because Diana dashed hither and thither inside it, causing the riders to move back a little to keep their distance from the dreaded dog.

The sound of tambourines came from somewhere in the distance. That must have been a signal for the riders in the front rows to gallop away into the steppe.

A wide view of the steppe, overgrown with tall grass of that extraordinary yellowish-pink color, opened before the explorers. It looked like a very wide, flat mountain valley, flanked on its right by the unnatural pinkish woods, with mountains looming high beyond it in the distance, and disappearing in the thick gray clouds. In fact, the mountains could be seen not only beyond the forest: they encircled the steppe on all sides. Artem recollected the conversation with the geologist last night — if his hypothesis was to be accepted, then these mountains must be the inner walls of the gigantic subterranean cavity. It would be interesting to find out whether any of the Scythians ever tried to climb them.

The procession was moving through the flat steppe. Only a mound of moderate size could be seen in the distance; it was in the direction of this mound that the riders had galloped off. There was a strange structure topping the mound; it did resemble neither a temple, nor a house, nor even a tent.

It was just a big black pile in the shape of a crude pyramid. People were swarming all over the slopes of the mound. It seemed that the entire population of the Scythian camp had gathered here: some were on horseback, others came on foot; there were women and even children there. Artem’s sharp eyes discerned a group of slaves standing to the side. Right by the black pyramid, Skolot, wearing the gleaming gold helmet, was to be seen on his horse, surrounded by his warriors.

Lida grabbed Artem by the hand. There was anxiety in her voice.

“Look, there’s Dorbatay over there. And that disgusting Hartak is at his side. They seem to be sticking together!”

“Don’t worry! I assure you everything’ll be all right,” the young man said cheerfully. But lie was not so unperturbed as he pretended. He had not expected to see so many people gathered here. Would he be able to do what had been planned in front of this multitude? His disturbed glance sought Ivan Semenovich. The geologist replied with an energetic nod of his head: everything’ll be all right, and everything’s going according to plan.

The procession was meanwhile drawing closer and closer to the black pyramid. It turned out to be a huge pile of dry branches and twigs, and served as the ceremonial sacred altar of the Scythians. Dmitro Borisovich had no doubts now that the pyramid was an altar. He could see a wooden ladder reaching to the top of the big pile. A huge old, blackened scimitar was sticking from the very top of it. Something was evidently holding it in an upright position, point upward. The whole arrangement was very close to what the archeologist thought ancient Scythian altars must have looked like judging from the available archeological and historical evidence.

Dorbatay was standing by the ladder wearing his ceremonial scarlet cloak decorated with plates of gold sewn to it. His cold, hostile eyes were searching the faces of the strangers for signs of fear or anxiety. But in vain! The explorers were quietly looking over the altar, the old soothsayer, his assistants, and the burly priestesses with their daggers and curved knives. It was they, the Scythians, who were nervously watching the strangers accompanied by the dread poskina; it was they, the assistants, who would have to deal with the miracle-working strangers endowed with magical powers.

Skolot, his bodyguard, and his warriors formed a separate group. The old chieftain did not look as self-assured as he had the day before in spite of his obvious attempts to preserve his usual forbidding appearance of contemptuous and indifferent haughtiness. His hands played nervously with the reins; from time to time he exchanged short, clipped phrases with his warriors. The old chieftain was probably apprehensive that Dorbatay would use his position as “owner” of the strangers to his own advantage. The previous night, the soothsayer had categorically rejected all proposals that Skolot had made concerning the ransoming of the strangers. He had refused to turn them over to the chieftain, and now the foreign wizards, craftily manipulated by the soothsayer, could do a lot of harm to the chieftain’s cause.

There was one more person who could hardly suppress his anxiety. It was Varkan. As soon as the procession approached close enough, Artem recognized him among the warriors who were standing a little aside from the group of extravagantly dressed bodyguards. The group Varkan was in looked much more somber, with no costly things decorating their dress. It was clear from the first glance that Varkan was a central figure among the low-born warriors. Artem wondered why. Weren’t all of these warriors equal in social status? But of course, this question had to remain unanswered for the time being.

A group of the high-born Scythians, haughty and self- assured, sitting on richly embellished horses, was stationed not far from Dorbatay, between his numerous assistants and Skolot’s warriors. The high-born Scythians deported themselves with great dignity, well aware of their power and strength. They stared at the strangers with open hostility.

Somewhat further downhill, the rest of the Scythians stood murmuring. They did not have any ornaments on their clothes, even the simplest bronze ones. They were a uniform mass of people with no one having anything to distinguish him or her from the rest. At the foot of the mound, the crowd was even bigger; it consisted of the Scythians and slaves who did not have the right to approach the altar any closer.

Lida could not help glancing stealthily at Hartak who was sitting on a horse with richly adorned harness. His horse and his dress were definitely marks of his lofty status. He was also wearing a round bronze helmet, and a sword hung suspended from his belt. But all in all, everything about him had an artificial, even humorous aspect. The sword seemed to be pulling him to one side, making him appear even more bent; the bronze helmet weighed his head down. He cut a sorry figure sitting so awkwardly on his horse. But in spite of all this, he struck the girl as her arch-enemy. She could not help shuddering as she looked at his bony, twisted face.

Now the explorers were left almost to themselves with only a few of the soothsayer’s assistants standing near. There were four robust priestesses close by, holding two slaves whose hands were bound. Dorbatay’s threats of “sacrifices to be made at the ceremony” came to Artem’s mind. These two hapless slaves, bereft of any chance of defending themselves, were to be sacrificed! He turned sharply to Ivan Semenovich:

“What if they begin with these slaves? What do we do then?” the young man’s face reflected his confusion. The geologist did not have time to reply.

At that moment the soothsayer raised his arms into the air in a gesture that had become so familiar to the explorers. It must have been the signal for the ceremony to begin, for almost immediately, all his acolytes also hoisted their hands up. An ominous silence fell over the place.

Dorbatay began chanting something in a high-pitched, hoarse voice. He bowed low before the pyramid of branches, straightened up, stretching his arms toward the big blackened scimitar sticking from the top of the pyramid. A gentle wind ruffled the folds of his scarlet cloak, making the old soothsayer look like a monstrously huge bird of prey ready to descend on its victim. The acolytes imitated all the movements of Dorbatay.

The tune of the song the old soothsayer was singing changed abruptly. The acolytes ceased their chanting as though directed to stop. Now Dorbatay was singing all alone, pitching the song too high, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Then he flailed his arms and the chant was picked up again by all the acolytes. Dmitro Borisovich leaned forward to whisper into the geologist’s ear:

“There was something in his song that concerned us. He mixed Greek words with Scythian, but I could get the general drift.”

“That’s interesting. What did he say?”

“Something along this line: ‘Strangers! We’ll sacrifice you’ to the gods if you do not give in. There’s still time to stop the sacrifice. Say that you accept my conditions. Otherwise you will die. But first you will watch these slaves die.’ It sounded like both a warning and a threat.”

“That’s all there was to it?” Ivan Semenovich asked nonchalantly.

“Basically, yes.”

“I’m afraid he won’t get any positive answer from us to his proposals. Or maybe you are of a different opinion?”

“Of course not!” the archeologist cried out indignantly. “How could you think such a thing of me?”

“I’m glad you said so. Now we know at least that Dorba- tay wants to start with the slaves and not with us. So much the better!”

The chant ended. Dorbatay barked fiercely several concluding words which were evidently meant to whip the listening Scythians into a frenzy. He was quite successful in it since in response he got wild shouts and clanging of weapons; the bows were drawn, and a rain of long-shafted arrows was released; the arrows described a long arch and landed at quite a distance from the mound.