Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 72

The camp came to life with first light, and a modest breakfast was cooked. Fresh horses were chosen from the huge herds that were driven together while the Scythians were on the march; they were then harnessed to the enormous wagons. The horses that had pulled the wagons the day before were put back in the herds; horses that were too exhausted to go on or that were injured were slaughtered. The meat was salted down and stored for the future. This routine was repeated every day, in strict accordance with age-old tradition.

The Scythians had been moving along the edge of the seemingly endless forest beyond which the high cliffs loomed monptonously in the distance. Sometimes the column swerved away from the forest, only to come back to it, continuing along its edge.

Artem sometimes wondered whether Dorbatay and the Scythian chieftains had abandoned the idea of catching the fugitives or had forgotten about them altogether. There had been no more attempts to capture the small group of the fugitives in the forest or even to see whether they were following the funeral procession. It was extremely unlikely that Dorbatay had forgotten about his enemies: the soothsayer was much too prudent and judicious to allow something like that to slip his mind! So, there were two possible explanations for the absence of harrassment: either Dorbatay thought they had stayed behind or that there were too few of them to worry about even if they were somewhere in the vicinity of the column. Dorbatay was probably quite sure that the captive outlanders were guarded heavily enough so as to be quite inaccessible.

It was no problem for Artem, Varkan and his men to watch every move the Scythians made without being seen. Artem made sure to remember all the landmarks they passed, for if they had to return to the old place all by themselves after rescuing Lida and Ivan Semenovich, their only chance to get back to the surface of the earth was to locate the hole they had come through.

There was one thing that attracted the attention of the young man whose curiosity never left him. The Scythians were moving past the cliffs along the edge of the forest. According to the geologist’s theory, the cliffs were in fact monolithic walls that rose above the clouds and encompassed the enormous subterranean cavity, inhabited by the Scythians. It was through a crack in this wall that the explorers had gotten into this Scythian world, leaving behind the big cave with its stalactites, stalagmites, and terrible gas.

At first, Artem, consulting his compass, thought the Scythians were heading due west, and this discovery did pot improve his mood — which was blue enough — in the least. Every kilometer took them further away from the crack in the wall. But after some time, Artem saw that the direction in which the Scythians were moving changed slightly to the northwest.

Artem told Dmitro Borisovich of his observations.

“So, you’re correlating the direction they are taking by compass. That’s good. But frankly, I don’t think it makes much difference which way they’re heading — west or southwest.”

It was clear that the archeologist thought it made very little difference as far as the two of them were concerned, and Artem would probably have taken the same attitude if not for the fact that the Scythians continued to swerve to the right, heading almost due south. This meant that the cliffs curved extending from north to south, and the Scythians were moving along the concave curve of the cliffs.

This was in itself a very important observation, no matter what Dmitro Borisovich thought of it! If this were really so, that meant they could not travel too far from the opening through which the explorers had entered this Scythian world. If they were moving in the circle, they would come back to where they had started!

It would be very good if it were so. But would they be lucky enough, after rescuing Lida and Ivan Semenovich, (Artem was convinced that they would soon be rescued) to find a place in the wall that could be broken through, say, with the help of Varkan and his men? Artem shook his head as he thought of it: it was quite unreasonable to hope that there were several thin places in the wall like the one they had come through where it took only a single dynamite charge to break through.

Should he talk to Dmitro Borisovich about all this? No, it did not seem worth the effort. Excellent expert in archeology — especially in matters concerning the archeology of the Black Sea coast — though he was, Dmitro Borisovich was little interested in geology which, he said, dealt with “dead matter.” Artem had had more than one opportunity to be convinced that he and Lida knew more about geology than Dmitro Borisovich.

So, discussing the problem with the archeologist would hardly be useful. That’s why Artem stopped thinking about it, all the more so since another thing was foremost in his mind — how to rescue Lida and Ivan Semenovich. But that would only be possible during the uprising.

Every day, a number of people joined Varkan at the camp. They were young wariors and hunters who had had a very low opinion of the priests even before Skolot’s death and had shown their hostile attitude in some manner. Now they felt that Dorbatay and the elders would retaliate, so they preferred to join Varkan in the forest, knowing that the priests and.nobles had been settling scores these days with those who had dared to oppose them.

Ronis and Varkan were taking their time to make thorough preparations for the uprising. Artem considered it to be the best way of doing things, but still, he was burning with desire to throw himself immediately into the fray which would bring freedom to Lida and Ivan Semenovich.

Meanwhile, all he could do was to watch the Scythians from some distance away. Only when they stopped for the night, did Artem and Varkan risk coming any closer. Artem still entertained a dim hope that some happy chance would present itself for saving Lida and Ivan Semenovich. But, alas, nothing of the sort occurred, as Artem never managed to get even anywhere close to the center of the camp where the big wagon that was the focus of his attention, stood.

Artem could easily tell this wagon from the rest by its red covering which he had glimpsed occasionally in the daytime. Once he even thought he could see Lida peering out, but he was too far away to know for sure. Anyway it was quite out of the question to attempt to set Lida free. There was nothing for him to do but clench his fists and wait.

The tension of forced inactivity was somewhat alleviated by Lida’s letters. It was not Diana that carried the messages now. Ronis had set up a delivery service: every night, slaves brought Artem little sheets of paper torn from the geologist’s notepad covered with Lida’s fine handwriting, bearing signs of haste. Artem read and reread the messages several times, trying to grasp Lida’s thoughts and feelings. Then, in his mind’s eye, he would conjure up the image of his dear Lida:

…The wagon, heaving and creaking, its wheels going over bumps and small hollows, the tracks left on the ground being the only road across the wide steppe with the pink- yellowish forest stretching endlessly on one side, and the cliffs looming behind. Then a flat stretch of ground without bumps or hollows, the only sound now — the loud unceasing rasping of the wheels on the axles coming from all sides…

…Lida sitting in the wagon, looking out, staring at the distant woods, knowing that there Artem, Dmitro Borisovich, Varkan and his men, were following and waiting for the proper moment to get them free! Lida staring and sighing, the poor girl! Seeing nothing but the motionless trees, Lida would turn away, bending low over a piece of paper, writing the letter Artem was holding in his hand…

My Dearest Artem, In your letter you tell me not to worry, to be cool and composed. I know it without your having to remind me, but waiting is so depressing! Waiting all day long and waiting all night long, waiting for something that doesn’t happen! The only thing that makes the waiting easier is writing letters to you. So I write as much as I can and will write as long as there are sheets left in Ivan Semenovich’s pad. You want me to describe everything that has happened to us since the departure. All right, I’ll do it.

From the very start, the wagon we’re riding in has been in the center close to Hartak’s and right next to Skolot’s huge funeral bier with its red cover; ten white horses are pulling it. There are red stripes along the horses’ sides and backs. The priests escorting the body, are riding white horses too…

Artem again concentrated on the images evoked in his mind; he had in fact seen some of what Lida described from the hiding place — it was an impressive sight…

…The large bier with the body of Skolot, priests with sacred images of eagles, panthers and deer, the highest nobles and elders heading the procession. Around the bier those Scythians who had inflicted ritual wounds on themselves to express their grief at the death of the great chieftain Skolot: parts of ears missing, streaks of blood drying on their cheeks, necks and clothes; cuts on their hands and arms still oozing blood; foreheads and noses with deep scratches; left palms pierced with arrows, and hair cut short. The Scythians singing a disturbing, heart-rending song, with the priests leading — or perhaps not a song but chanting a prayer to the implacable gods? None of the Scythians was aware of the real cause of Skolot’s death. Dorbatay, the poisoner, was riding in his wagon, looking very dignified, feigning concentration as he was mumbling prayers to the gods. The white horses slowly pulled the bier; another big wagon, carrying Skolot’s bereaved wife, moved right behind the bier; she kept her face buried in her wrinkled hands, covered with age-spots. Two old priests were sitting beside the widow who was destined to follow the chieftain into the grave. The body of Skolot lay under a felt canopy in the red bier garbed in sumptuous clothes, the gold helmet on his head and massive gold bracelets on his wrists, arms folded on his chest; the old chieftain’s short sword resting by his side; Skolot’s expression peaceful, his closed eyes suggesting sleep rather than, death, his face showing no signs of the death throes that had filled his last moments, only the thin, transparent layer of wax over the face and hands reminding one that he was rather dead than quietly resting or slumbering…