Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 78

Varkan’s face was clouded; even more sombre was Ronis’s. He knew in general terms from his own sources what was going on in the Scythian camp, but the hunters’ story had affected him deeply. The hunters informed him that Dorbatay was preparing a new rite with more human sacrifices. Such bloody rites were staged practically every day now, and the Greek slaves were being killed in increasing numbers by the priests as a sacrifice to propitiate the gods.

Ronis stared gloomily at the fire where the sparks were darting and dancing. Varkan came up to him and patted him on the shoulder:

“Don’t feel too bad, my friend,” he said softly. “There are only two or three more days of waiting before we strike. Then we’ll put an end to everything that’s depressing you and breaking your heart now. Do you believe me?”

Ronis raised his head, his big eyes glistening with reflections from the fire. When he began to speak, there was a great anguish in his voice:

“I do believe you and trust you completely, Varkan. Otherwise I would not be here with you. I’m firmly convinced that we’ll win. But sometimes I feel I’m choking with too much hatred for Dorbatay and his priests…”

“What’s so bad about that?” Varkan asked in surprise.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” the Greek said with a sigh. “But sometimes it can be a nuisance; it fuddles the brain as you saw quite recently, my friend. When this hatred grips me, I forget our aims and think only of revenge for all my brothers. How many of my kin has he had tortured to death and murdered! If Dorbatay manages to escape, I will be very discontented!”

“He will not escape, Ronis!”

“He does not have much chance… as long as I’m alive.” Ronis suddenly sprang to his feet. His voice rang.

“And what will happen if I die before him? No, Varkan, I am not afraid of death. But it might turn out that I will not be able to meet my arch enemy face to face. It can happen easily in battle, for no one is protected from sudden death. You’re a soldier yourself, Varkan, and you understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” the Scythian said in a low voice.

“All right then,” Ronis said. “Death or a bad wound can come unheeded from a stray arrow… or the blow of an axe from behind… And I won’t be able to do what I’m burning to do. Such thoughts make me restless; I lose the ability to do what must be done at the moment; I have an irrepressible urge to cut the old evil-doer’s throat with my own hands! To kill him — and then come what may. Now listen to me, Varkan. Do you still consider yourself my friend and brother, now and for ever?”

“Why should you ask? You know very well that I do!” Varkan said reproachfully.

“All right then. I have never asked you for personal favors. But now I want you to promise me in all earnest to do what I ask of you. And if I die and you don’t do it, may Fate punish you! Do you agree to promise me that, Varkan?”

“Go ahead, tell me your request, I’m listening.”

“There’s only one request I have, one demand rather, as you’re my best friend, my blood brother. If I fall in battle, dead or badly wounded, if I am not fated to be the avenger for all my murdered Greek brothers… if fate does not allow me to kill this blood-thirsty, wild beast, this hideous creature and murderer Dorbatay with my own hands, you, Varkan, must kill him yourself. Kill him! Fulfill my greatest desire, punish the vile man, Varkan, my friend!”

Ronis’s voice was vibrating with intense hatred; he shook his clenched fists in the air; he dropped his voice from a shout to a fervent, even feverish whisper, stopping to gasp for air as though he was short of breath.

“Kill him!… Kill him, Varkan! Swear you will!”

Varkan put his hand on the hilt of the sword. His face was grave and determined as he said firmly and solemnly: “I swear to you, Ronis, that I will do what you ask of me. My hatred for Dorbatay is no less than yours. All my friends hate him. We’ll never know peace until this stinking rat dies. I swear to you, o Ronis!”

The paroxysm of great agitation passed and Ronis now seemed a little ashamed of this display of emotions, which was so out of character with him. He wiped his forehead with his palm and sighed with relief. Then he squeezed Varkan’s hand, looking him straight in the eye.

“I believe you, Varkan! I will put it out of my mind. You are a noble and honest man. I am going to repeat what I once said, but you refused to take heed then: I sincerely want you, Varkan, to become the chieftain of the Scythians!” Varkan shrugged his shoulders, not saying anything in reply.

Several young warriors came up to the camp fire. They were to start shortly on their nightly raid to get more horses from Dorbatay’s herds. Varkan listened to their report and issued brief orders; the warriors walked away and disappeared into the darkness. The sounds of the tambourines came from the Scythian camp in the distance.

Artem felt neither fear nor apprehension. On the contrary, now, after he had heard the translation of Ronis’s passionate outburst and Varkan’s reply, a firm belief in the successful outcome of their enterprise grew in him. The vague doubts and anxieties that had been lurking in the back of his mind completely disappeared. For the first time in his life, he had witnessed the great power of hatred!

Artem had also had another opportunity to see that Varkan was a courageous, resolute, honest and straightforward man. He had also learnt that Ronis had a penetrating, sober and flexible mind and was a man of mettle and cold-blooded reason. He realized very clearly now that this reticent Greek had become the leader of the downtrodden slaves by right, just as Varkan was* at the head of the maltreated hunters, herdsmen and young warriors from the deceased chieftain’s entourage by right.

But it was only now that Artem had seen them open their hearts, filled as they were with turbulent feelings, to show the magnitude of their hatred for their common enemy. Ronis and Varkan, drawn so close to each other by mutual love, friendship and respect, amply demonstrated their great human worth. Artem grew to admire them enormously.

It made Artem feel proud to have both these men as his friends. He was not at all surprised when Dmitro Borisovich told him enthusiastically:

“We will win, Artem! Now I’m sure of it.”

The archeologist was staring at him with his myopic eyes, much too thoroughly wiping his eyeglasses which had suspiciously misted over. But his face was clear and he was wearing the resolute expression of a man who has arrived at some unshakable conclusions.

“Of course we’ll win, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said. “From what you just translated it seems…”

The archeologist took Artem’s hand and squeezed it hard: “Yes, I know what you mean, Artem! Now I’m sure that nothing will stop them! Consequently, the most important thing for us at the moment — the release of dear friends — will also be accomplished! We’ll be together again! We’ll kiss our beloved girl, we’ll embrace Ivan Semenovich…” Dmitro Borisovich was so deeply moved by his own words that he was struck speechless for some time by his frantic attempts to find adequate verbal expression for his emotions. Ronis got to his feet.

“I’m going back to the Scythian camp,” he said. His voice had returned to normal — it was quiet, sober, imbued with characteristic ironic overtones. Nothing betrayed the emotional outburst he had gone through just a short while ago. “I’ll find out — maybe for the last time — how Dorbatay and Hartak are getting on. I’m interested to learn whether they think nothing threatens them in the near future, whether anything’s troubling them… It seems we have arranged and thought of everything, Yarkan? Do you remember our signals?”

“Yes,” said Varkan curtly.

“Then I’m leaving. I probably won’t see you until the day of the uprising.” Ronis raised his hand in a gesture of good-bye and disappeared among the trees.

The men sitting around the dying fire fell silent; the deep night shadows, which seemed even darker against the unstable light of the last, flickering flames, were moving in from all sides. A slight breeze gently touched the tops of tall grass. The clearing where they were sitting was enveloped on all sides by the impenetrable dark. Only the clouds in the sky could still be discerned.

CHAPTER SIX

The Scythians arrive at Gerrhus and the explorers watch the funeral ceremony from a ledge on the face of the cliff; Ronis gives the signal and the battle begins; the four friends are reunited only to find themselves facing a new danger; Varkan displays his courage, and the time comes for the explorers to use their only weapon.

The tops of the huge rocks at the ledge close to the foot of the cliffs served as an excellent observation point. Artem reckoned hardly a kilometer separated them from the site where the burial was to take place. From where they stood, they remained undetected by the Scythians below. Even if it were not for the jagged rocks which provided such a good hiding place, the Scythians below were much too busy to pay any attention to anything around them.

Not only could the observers see everything in detail due to the extreme purity of the air, but they could also hear the sounds of the remarkable spectacle unfolding below them. For several hours now, the priests had been chanting their woeful prayers. The solemn and impressive ceremony of Skolot’s burial turned out to be a compelling sight.