Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 57

“He’s dying, he’s dying!” Lida cried out in great alarm. Can’t we help him somehow? Something must be done!”

Varkan, who had rushed to the chieftain, had been stopped not by the curses and imprecations of the old soothsayer but by the armed priests who had surrounded the motionless body in immediate obedience to a signal from Dorbatay. Everything that had come to pass had evidently been carefully planned beforehand and agreed upon by the perfidious soothsayer and his supporters who now streamed to the dais, forming a tight circle around it. The strangers, who had been joined by Varkan, were surrounded by armed men which made any potential attempts at resistance quite futile.

Skolot’s hands jerked convulsively for the last time and his body went rigid. This was the end. The old chieftain had died.

“What’s going to happen to us now?” Lida asked in consternation. “Now we’re at the mercy of Dorbatay.”

“But what caused his death?” Dmitro Borisovich asked in an undertone. “It was so sudden… I can’t understand it.”

“Dorbatay poisoned him,” Ivan Semenovich replied, also in a subdued voice.

“Poisoned? But how?..”

“Remember when Dorbatay was about to hand the gold owl to Skolot, he dropped it, as if by chance, into Skolot’s bowl?”

“Yes, he did. So what?”

“The gold owl must have been covered with some poison which dissolved in the oksugala. Hartak must have been in on the plot which was masterminded by the old soothsayer and backed up by his supporters. Every little thing had been foreseen… Ah, just take a look at them now. Their triumph bespeaks their complicity!”

Hartak was now standing on the dais, supported by priests on either side. Nervous tremors passed through him, and his face muscles twitched spasmodically. He avoided looking in the direction of the corpse, trying hard to assume a dignified appearance, but failing dismally. He shifted his gaze quickly from one Scythian to another, turning to look at Dorbatay every other minute as though seeking support.

The elders and nobles were now standing in a tight circle around the dais, not letting the other Scythians to come close.

Artem, seething with rage, glared at Hartak, repeating time after time:

“Scoundrel! Parricide! Rascal!”

Hartak must have heard Artem’s frenzied shouts for he shot a glance at him, his glower being like a poisoned dart. The boundless fury in that scowl was impotent, but only for the moment.

Dorbatay triumphantly climbed onto the dais and stood close to Hartak. The old soothsayer was flawlessly acting out his extremely complicated main role in this terrible drama of his own concoction. He turned to the Scythians who were crowded in front of the dais, and began speaking in a loud, deep voice, filled with real or feigned emotion:

“Courageous Skolots, elders, hunters and warriors! Listen to the message of the gods that I have received! Listen carefully, because the breath of the gods has touched me, giving me the faculty to understand their language. Listen to me, o Skolots, you, who are always obedient to the gods’ commands, listen to the voice of the gods! Step closer, illustrious Hartak, the son of a chieftain, and future chieftain!”

Hartak, supported by the two priests, limped over to Dorbatay. Now they were standing very close to each other, and the corpse of Skolot, for whose death they were responsible, was lying before them. The elders and nobles stood like a solid wall between the excited but browbeaten Scythians and Dorbatay who looked majestic, and even awesome in his long scarlet cloak; the gold ornaments sewn on it threw off dull reflections from the fitful flames of the torches.

“Listen to me, o Skolots! The implacable gods have punished Skolot with a terrible death. As they punished Anacharsis and Scylas in the past, so now they have stricken down Skolot, who caused their great wrath by violating our sacred customs. Skolot took the strange magicians under his protection and refused to give them to the gods! And because of this he died! But he died a chieftain and we must bury him with full honors, befitting a chieftain. That is what the gods have instructed me to tell you and I pass their message onto you!”

The Scythians began shouting their approval: Skolot had been a distinguished warrior and hunter and had earned the right to be buried with full honors! The old soothsayer had flawlessly worked out his role and was playing it excellently! He knew perfectly well when to strike, what to say, and how to say it!

Dorbatay raised his hand in a gesture calling for silence.

“I have not yet said everything, o courageous warriors and hunters. After the gods advised me of all the things that I have related to you, I asked them: who then is to become the chieftain of the Skolot people? Who has the right to wear this helmet, the symbol of power and respect?”

With these words he pointed to Skolot’s helmet lying at his feet. One of the priests promptly picked it up and handed it to Dorbatay.

“Who will wear this gold helmet that is passed from one chieftain to another in strict accordance with tradition? Who is worthy of this sacred insignia of power? Who can claim the right to take Skolot’s place because of his birth and because of the gods’ love for him? I asked the gods all this, and the gods deigned to reply. Now I will tell you whom they have chosen. Learn, o Skolots, of the gods’ will!”

He raised the gold helmet high.

“There is only one man who has the right to wear the gold helmet of a chieftain. There is only one man who has been blessed by the gods with their love. With this noble and wise man as chieftain, the lives of the Skolots will be made happy by the gods. He may be young, but he is devoted to the gods and respects our sacred customs and laws. This man is…”

Dorbatay made a well-calculated pause and then pronounced solemnly:

“This man is the noble Hartak, beloved of the gods!”

A disapproving murmur ran through the crowd. Hartak for the chieftain? Wasn’t he entirely unfitted for such a task?

Now came the most important moment in the revolting and terrible comedy staged and acted out by Dorbatay. To bring the final coup to a successful conclusion, Dorbatay shouted imperiously, making himself heard above the growing murmur of resentment:

“Tell me, o Skolots, do you want the noble Hartak for your chieftain? Mustn’t we submit to the will of the gods? Make up your minds, Skolots, the gods are waiting!”

The elders and nobles who were standing in a circle around the dais cheered so loudly that they completely drowned the dissatisfied murmur of the warriors and hunters who found themselves pushed much further away from the dais. The elders and nobles bellowed out the name of Skolot’s son, each trying to outdo the others in enthusiasm. This was what Dorbatay was waiting for.

“Noble Hartak,” Dorbatay said very loudly. “The gods bless your elevation to the chieftainship. The Skolots greet you. Do you not hear their thunderous support? They unanimously call upon you to be their chieftain! Accept this gold helmet and offer obesience to the gods! Let all the Skolots offer up their prayers with you, new chieftain of our people!”

Without any delay, he put the gold helmet on Hartak’s head. The helmet proved too big and heavy for Hartak; it tilted over one of Hartak’s eyes. But Dorbatay did not bother to adjust it.

“Pray, o Skolots!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Pray with the noble Hartak and me; pray to our stern but just gods, and thank them for not punishing all of us, in their mercy, along with Skolot!”

In a rasping voice he began singing a long drawn-out prayer. It was immediately picked up by the other priests and the nobles. In a few moments, all the Scythians joined the prayer. The tune was the same the explorers had heard when they first regained consciousness and found themselves in the pink forest. There was something sinister in the slow, sad, harsh-sounding prayer.

Artem glanced anxiously at Lida to see how she had been affected by what had just transpired. Lida was still in control of herself, but it was evident that she was thoroughly frightened. Now Hartak, who had suddenly become chieftain, was master of the situation, the very Hartak who had so persistently tried to marry her… And obviously this hideous man had not given up his intention: even at the tensest moments, Lida intercepted quick glances from Hartak which made her wince.

Who was now going to come to their aid? The situation had become much more dangerous with the death of Skolot, even though before, both brothers had regarded the strangers only as a means to gaining their own ends in a feud which had been going on for ages. Dorbatay had won at last, and now he was standing, puffed up with pride, over the body of his brother whom he had poisoned. From now on he could discard all pretense. He had gained supreme power, because Hartak was a puppet in his hands; and it was not at all clear whether Dorbatay would consider it worthwhile having the strangers alive rather than dead; besides he surely remembered that the strangers had defied him on several occasions!

Lida probably felt, as all the explorers did, that Varkan was the only Scythian who could be considered a friend. Some other young Scythian warriors — Varkan’s friends — seemed to have been friendly to the strangers, but this friendliness might well have been shown only in deference to Varkan. But in any case, now, when the situation had so drastically changed, Varkan and his friends could do very little to help the explorers. Varkan’s relations with the soothsayer were bad at best, and Dorbatay was hardly a person to forgive his enemies.