Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 55

The geologist caught the malicious glance that Dorbatay shot at them. But even without it, Dorbatay’s intentions and schemes had become apparent. He had begun on a mild enough note but as he warmed to his own words, he grew more and more vituperative. Now they still had to wait for the end of the story and listen to what he would demand of the chieftain.

There was one more thing that worried Ivan Semenovich. He noticed that while Dorbatay was speaking, some characters kept coming up to the group of the Scythian nobles. They received orders given in very low voices and walked away as stealthily as they had come. It looked like a plot was being hatched, and this was especially menacing.

Dorbatay began speaking again; he was sure now he had the absolute attention of the audience:

“The Skolot people readily agreed with the soothsayers and elders because that was what the gods willed. The people chose the distinguished Oktamasades to be their chieftain! And the reprobate Scylas was beheaded! He was sacrificed to the uncompromising but just gods! And not a single warrior, not a single hunter spoke against such a punishment being meted out to the apostate though he had been their chieftain. All the people knew and realized that the patience of the gods had been exhausted and that the gods were ready to strike down the backslider and his henchmen with their thunderbolts!”

Dorbatay made a short pause, raising his staff with the gold owl high above his head to the full length of his arms, and then finished his story in a loud, solemn ominous voice:

“This is what the Skolots did to the treacherous Scylas who neglected our gods! And the gods were well pleased with the sacrifice. Happy times came to the Skolots. So the gods advised me, the humble soothsayer Dorbatay: ‘Remember this story! Remember well the fate of the backslider Scylas!’ I, Dorbatay, tell you on behalf of the gods: remember it well! This is what the Skolots must always do; they must always punish traitors who let themselves be pushed around by foreigners, who adopt foreign ways and worship foreign gods! Nothing will save them from retribution, no matter how exalted they may be! Take heed, warriors and hunters, hearken to the words of the humble soothsayer! I have related to you everything the gods have bidden me to say. Remember and know that our gods will not allow any crime against or mockery of our sacred and ancient customs and laws!”

* * *

The soothsayer finished his story; it had obviously made a great impression on the audience, judging by the loud murmur that came from the Scythians. The archeologist bent over and said to Ivan Semenovich:

“You were absolutely right, my dear friend,” there was anxiety in his voice. “The old trickster has twisted the story to suit his purpose…”

“In which way?” the geologist said, looking up.

“Remember the part that dealt with Scylas and his death? There is sufficient historical evidence on the matter to state positively that Scylas was killed for his tyrannical and oppressive rule, for doing his best to oblige the Greek colonizers rather than for backsliding and neglecting the local customs. Scylas, in all likelihood, was craftily manipulated by the Greeks who sought the establishment of the Greek rule over the Scythians. When it was discovered, Scylas paid with his life for the treachery.”

“Then the story Dorbatay has told has some historical background? He has not invented all of it?” Lida asked in some surprise.

“No, he hasn’t. The evidence we have from ancient historians basically coincides with Dorbatay’s story,” Dmitro Borisovich replied. “But he has twisted the facts to incite the Scythians against us and Skolot. It was a clever move, I must admit!”

“He has achieved what he set out to do,” Ivan Semenovich said glumly. “The mood of the Scythians has changed drastically. Look at the wealthy and the elders: they’re not sitting in a separate group any longer — they have joined the hunters. And they are definitely trying to work the hunters up!”

The wealthy Scythians had indeed begun to mingle with the distinguished hunters and warriors. Some of them must have gone to rouse the rest of the Scythians, because menacing shouts began coming from all sides and hostility could be glimpsed in many eyes. There was no doubt now that Dorbatay had been and was playing a well-prepared and carefully-staged role. Everything must have been planned beforehand including the craftily built and embroidered story which had been directed implicitly against the strangers.

Dorbatay had meanwhile again turned to Skolot and bowed to him deferentially as though he had not just shown his hostile attitude toward the chieftain. According to the tradition, Skolot had to honor the story-teller by personally handing him the bowl of oksugala, and it seemed Dorbatay was waiting to be thus honored.

Skolot took a gold bowl of oksugala and extended it to the soothsayer, albeit reluctantly, but no matter what threats Dorbatay had made in his malevolent story-telling, the sacred tradition had to be upheld.

To the chieftain’s great surprise, Dorbatay refused to accept the bowl. He shook his head, once again bowed ceremoniously to Skolot, and then said:

“My glorious and wise brother Skolot surely remembers that there’s been some enmity between us. I did not want it, and the wise Skolot did not want it either. But this enmity has cast dark shadows upon our hearts. Now we no longer treat each other the way we used to or the way we should. J think it’s time to change all this. I want us, o wise brother, to let bygones be bygones! Let us forgive and forget the past! I have come here to offer reconciliation. Let us forget the past once and forever! Fill your bowl too, o brother Skolot, and let us wash away our grievances with this oksugala! May we never bear each other any grudges!”

Now Dorbatay spoke in an extremely friendly and earnest manner which stood out in stark contrast to the tone in which he had recited his tale. The change was utterly confusing. Could it really be that the old soothsayer had come to the feast to make peace with Skolot, though his previous behavior contradicted such an intention? In any case it had to be admitted that Dorbatay was a remarkable actor. There was so much earnestness, so much sincere, profound sadness in his voice that it was impossible not to believe him!

“I say, what if he genuinely wants reconciliation?” said Lida, who had definitely been swayed by Dorbatay’s performance.

“But not with us,” Artem said sharply.

“Now, o Skolot, have your own bowl filled,” Dorbatay went on. “Here, before all our courageous warriors and hunters, I call upon the gods to witness that I sincerely wish to discard all the memory of the misunderstandings that have occurred between us in the past and to forget old scores so that nothing will cloud our future. In token of my best intentions I have brought you a gift — this sacred image of the owl, the wisest of birds. Have your bowl filled, brother, and we will drink to seal our new pledge!”

The Scythians cheered approvingly. Dorbatay surely knew how to sway an audience! His last words sounded so sincere and moving that it was impossible not to believe him, and if he did have some dark designs lurking in the gloomy depths of his wicked heart, they were completely concealed by his honeyed words. Now, whether or not Skolot was convinced of Dorbatay’s good will, he had to comply with the soothsayer’s wish to seal the proffered agreement with a drink of oksugala.

The servant filled Skolot’s golden bowl. Dorbatay had, meanwhile, taken the gold owl from the top of the staff and extended it to Skolot, saying:

“May this sacred image always remind you, my wise and courageous brother Skolot, of the love that all our hunters, all our warriors, all our herdsmen, all our soothsayers have for you… and of my brotherly love, too!”

Skolot reached out to take the gold owl but as Dorbatay leaned forward to hand it to him, he tripped on the uneven carpet, lost his balance and nearly fell. He let go of the gold owl, and it plopped right into Skolot’s bowl. Dorbatay lightened himself and exclaimed, as though in distress:

“How careless of me! But even this can be interpreted as a sign from the gods! The gods indicate that they want you to drink this oksugala as a token of our return to friendly, brotherly ways. And you will recover the sacred image from the bottom of the bowl after you’ve drunk the oksugala. Now, let’s drink, my dear brother Skolot! And may nothing cloud our concord which is blessed by the gods!”

With these words he raised his bowl as if making a toast; Skolot did the same. Hundreds of eyes were fixed unwaveringly on them. In the dead silence reigning over the place, the two brothers put the bowls to their lips and emptied them in long gulps. The Scythians erupted in shouts of cheers in support of the unexpected reconciliation. Surprisingly enough, the cheers that came from the rich and the elders were by far the loudest. Why should they be gladder than anyone else?

“It’s inconceivable that they can come to a lasting accord,” Artem said, hardly believing his eyes.

Dorbatay lowered his bowl slowly, looking Skolot straight in the eye; the chieftain had meanwhile taken the gold owl from the bottom of his bowl and was looking it over. The soothsayer was staring intently at the chieftain as though expecting something, and a malevolent expression appeared on his stern, forbidding face for a fleeting moment. Then he shifted his gaze to Hartak and beneath the gray mustache, his lips broke into a wry smile.