Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 4

Lida and Artem imagined quaint scenes from ancient times when the tribes of Scythians, Sarmatians, Greeks, and Persians had wandered through these areas, when the great and powerful nations had appeared on the historical scene to fight their neighbors, to win bloody battles or to be routed and disappear…

Red tongues of flame rose up and mingled with black smoke. Artem listened to the archeologist with his head resting on his hands, gazing into the fire. It seemed to him that he was not listening to the archeologist’s stories but seeing the actual protagonists in flesh and blood.

He was especially fascinated by the stories of the ancient Scythians. Artem’s imagination was utterly captivated by this mysterious people, a mixture of different tribes who had progressed from very primitive conditions to more advanced ones: they were at first nomads, hunters and then tillers of the land. Artem was enthralled with the unusual customs of the Scythians, who did not leave behind any written texts, and of whose existence one could learn only from indirect sources: mention made by ancient Greek and Roman historians, and from archeological excavations at their burial sites, now thickly overgrown with grass.

It was believed that in their migration from Southern Siberia and Kazakhstan, the Scythian tribes had mixed with other nomads, related to them in origin, in the Aral steppes, and then moved on to what is now the Ukraine and area around the Black Sea. Later on they were driven into the Crimea, Asia Minor and the Balkans by migrating Sarmat- ians. A part of the Scythians must have been absorbed by these new nomads, setting the scene for the earliest Slavic population on the territory of the present-day Ukraine. This story of the most ancient forefathers of Slavs sounded exciting and romantic!

That was the way the geology student had quite unexpectedly allowed himself to be captivated by archeology. And that was why it was such a blow for him when, as the reader already knows, Dmitro Borisovich and Lida had so treacherously left him out. No wonder he got angry. The reader remembers as well that he decided to do something to spite everyone. But what was it? It will soon be revealed.

Sunday is by rights the day a person can sleep late. That was what Artem believed and always did. But this particular Sunday, he got up earlier than usual. He dressed quietly, careful not to awaken Ivan Semenovich with whom he roomed, and picked up his miner’s gear.

Only the dog noticed that Artem was leaving. She looked at him expectantly, hoping he would play with her. But he stole away, and the boxer decided to be quiet, too. She rested her head on her outstretched front legs and closed her eyes.

The moment Artem was outside, he turned round to see whether anyone had noticed his leaving, and them made straight for the Sharp Mount. He walked through the high grass and weeds, heedless of the paths, hacking at the stalks with his pick as though the weeds were his personal enemies.

When he reached the cave, he stopped, lit the lamp, and entered. The familiar passage, the familiar damp walls. So far, so good. But where was the rockfall Dmitro Borisovich had been talking about? It did not take long to find it, and the hole in the rock suggested the way forward. Artem decided not to wait for anyone else. He was sure to make some extraordinary and extremely important discovery on his own.

Artem crawled through the hole and found that the tunnel got wider and higher. The rock reflected the light from the miner’s lamp as though it were polished. The cave was quite big, unexplored, full of mystery, concealing its secrets. Artem cried out in a burst of good humor:

“Oho-hoL.”

The loud echo reverberated somewhere far away, then died down, only to echo back from an even greater distance. The reverberations seemed to be running along the passage, breaking into separate sounds, like falling pieces of rock, generating strange, new menacing voices, quite different from Artem’s initial cry.

No, I won’t do it again. It’s a little unnerving, Artem thought to himself, directing the light along the ground to see the way ahead.

The passage grew wider as he moved forward, and it began to feel softer under his feet. Then at one moment, quite unexpectedly, Artem found that the passage forked and he had to choose which way to turn. He looked around hoping that something would suggest the direction. What was that on the wall? It looked like a drawing…

Oh yes, it was the profile, carved into the rock that Dmitro Borisovich had copied so carefully. No mistake about it. A human head, portrayed with rough lines cut deeply into the rock: short hair sticking from under a hood; a stern expression, a short straight nose and small beard. The face of a man from ancient times. Was he a Scythian? Most likely. Anyway, the visage corresponded to Artem’s mental image of the nomads: stern, manly, and yet marked with comeliness and pride…

Artem gazed at the profile for a while. An odd feeling came over him. For the first time in his life, he had come face to face with something truly ancient. Just to think that two thousand years before, an ancient artist had stood on that very spot, carving that profile in the rock!

But which way should Artem turn: left or right? Which way should he choose?

All of a sudden it dawned upon Artem that he should go in the direction the head on the wall indicated! Of course! Besides, there was a rough arrow scratched on the rock that pointed in the same direction. Without further hesitation, Artem turned right.

The new passage was narrower, and turned sharply at different angles. The corridor seemed to be bypassing huge rocks. Another fifteen or twenty meters, and Artem had to stop in a sudden disappointment — the passage was completely blocked by a wall of soft earth.

Another rockslide, Artem thought in frustration.

He was about to turn back. What rotten luck! Was it a dead end? But how could he return without finding anything? No, he positively had to try and do something about it. He had probably gone the wrong way; perhaps he should have turned left instead of right. But no, that arrow under the profile unmistakably pointed right. Maybe there was a way of getting around the obstacle…

Artem began thoroughly examining the wall, holding the lamp close. No, there was not a single crack. Then he suddenly held his breath.

He had caught sight of some barely noticeable traces of stonework in the wall right in front of his eyes. He held the lamp closer and was able to make out individual stones in the masonry. The stones were placed one upon the other, with darker lines of mortar in between to hold them together. Part of the obstruction was in fact a stone wall rising from the floor to the ceiling. How strange he had failed to notice it straight away!

The stone wall definitely concealed something. Otherwise, why should it be there? And how could he get inside? Had it been sealed up without any openings? There must be some treasure hidden behind it, what else? It was he, Artem, who would discover this secret… Oh, just you wait, Lida…

But before Artem had had any time to make a movement, he heard muffled sounds. He strained his ears to hear whether he had just imagined them. No, he hadn’t. Now he could make out distant footfalls: somebody was making his way toward him.

He was annoyed. He had no desire to share his remarkable discovery with anyone yet. The best thing to do now would be to hide somewhere so the approaching person would not notice him. That would allow Artem to avoid any unwanted explanations. But where could he hide? Artem began frantically searching for any sort of recess in the walls. But there wasn’t a single one! And the footfalls were drawing nearer and nearer. What a piece of bad luck! How would he explain his unauthorized visit to the cave?

Now Artem could also hear somebody whistling; the man who was approaching was evidently in a good mood: he was whistling quite a cheery tune. In a few seconds, a light blinked in the passage and…

“May I inquire what you are doing here, young man?” Artem heard the voice of Dmitro Borisovich.

Yes, it was the archeologist. He walked up, looked Artem over with suspicion (or so it seemed to the young man), and asked once again, this time somewhat sternly:

“Why have you come here, Artem? We decided to begin our exploration tomorrow, didn’t we? What does this all mean?”

Artem felt the blood rush to his face and neck. He tried to turn the whole thing into a joke:

“But you’re here, too, Dmitro Borsovich, in spite of…” That didn’t help in the least: it only aggravated the situation: the archeologist got quite hot under the collar: “What? I’m here because archeology happens to be my occupation. But what right have you to be here? Who told you to come? Who has authorized your visit? It seems that you, my dear friend, have not even informed anyone of your intentions! Am I correct in my assumption?”

Dmitro Borisovich was glaring fiercely at Artem through his eyeglasses.

“You seem to have decided to become an independent treasure hunter,” the archeologist went on implacably. “And this is after I’ve explained to you that it is benighted grave robbers that do most harm to archeology by defacing the most valuable evidence. Oh, I understand now — you wanted to make an important discovery on your own, so you kept your intentions secret? And then, probably, you would appropriate your finds without ever letting us know about them? Is that it, eh? Answer me!”

The accusations bordered on insult. He, Artem, a crass treasure hunter, a grave robber? Appropriate something for himself?