Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 80

Varkan, to his great satisfaction, also observed the concentration of the slaves in one place. His keen eyes saw — as he had expected — that their short cloaks were not draped around them in the usual loose manner, and he knew they must be hiding weapons underneath. So Ronis and his aids had managed to distribute weapons among the slaves.

Varkan turned to Artem. Without saying anything he picked up a sharp stone and scratched a circle on the rock. On one side of it he scratched an arrow that pierced the circle. Then, he quickly scratched another arrow on the other side of the circle. He dropped the stone, put his hands on both sides of the circle, and brought them together as though squeezing the circle, looking at Artem.

“I understand. An excellent plan!” Artem said, nodding his head. “We’ll get them in a pincer movement and crush them! It’s all quite clear!”

Varkan’s face broke into a happy smile: he and the young stranger, his blood brother, could communicate quite well!

The melancholy song grew in volume: all the Scythians, gathered at the grave, must have joined the priests in the song. Dorbatay raised his hands into the air — a gesture to draw attention to himself and give a signal to the priests. Another party of priests went to Skolot’s wagon to get the things that were to be placed into the grave. The ritual chanting grew alternately louder and softer, but never stopped. Dorbatay stood motionless with his hand in the air, the wide sleeves of his garment hanging at his sides like the wings of an immense, sinister bird. The priests were busy carrying things that once belonged to Skolot, into the grave. Golden bowls and ornaments, various weapons, among them his short ceremonial sword with the gold hilt, were carefully put on the rich carpets around the body to make sure that should the dead chieftain reach out his hand, he would get what he wanted.

“What fabulous treasures are being put in there!” whispered the archeologist, fascinated.

“Oh yes, they’re laying it out especially for you,” Artem could not help quipping.

Dmitro Borisovich did not hear the remark as his attention was completely absorbed by a party of priests who were carrying victuals to the grave: big cauldrons of stew, entire carcasses of horses, pigs and sheep.

At last, the flow of objects being put into the grave ceased. There was no room left around the corpse; it was impossible to reach it across the vast quantity of treasures, weapons and food.

Varkan touched Artem on the shoulder and pointed to the crowd and beyond. All the male slaves must have been gathered there. Artem’s heart was sent racing when he saw what he thought was the glint of a weapon.

The time of the attack must be very near now, he thought. When will Ronis give the signal? Everything seems ready. But where are Lida and Ivan Semenovich? I don’t see them anywhere!

Then another thought flashed through his mind: what if Ronis wasn’t giving the signal because he knew the captive strangers were being kept some place where their lives would be threatened if there was an attempt to free them, and he was doing something about it now?

Suddenly Diana, lying on a flat rock to the right of Artem, gave a short, agitated bark. At almost the same time, Dmitro Borisovich grabbed him by the shoulder:

“Look, there they are!”

A score of priests were escorting Lida and Ivan Semenovich to the grave. They walked unbound, and only the drawn weapons in the hands of the priests indicated that they were still captives. As he walked, Ivan Semenovich glanced toward the cliffs above the heads of the priests. Did he know where his friends were waiting in an ambush? The geologist and Lida must have been informed of their friends’ whereabouts because Lida also seemed to look in the same direction!

“They know, they surely know where we’ll attack from!” Artem cried out cheerfully. “It must be Ronis’s doing! He must have let them know somehow!”

Lida and Ivan Semenovich stopped not far from the grave, but not too close, which was very fortunate. For some reason or other, the priests must have decided they were not to be allowed to enter the inner circle. Their position would make setting them free easier. At least that’s what Artem thought.

Two hoary old warriors brought Skolot’s black stallion up to the grave, leading him by the reins. The horse didn’t want to he led into the hole and jerked from side to side. But the reins were held very fast. A priest with a distinguished and solemn appearance, approached the horse, dagger in hand, shouted something, probably an incantation, and plunged the dagger into the horse’s graceful neck. A jet of blood spurted out; tlie horse collapsed on its front knees, and a sound of choking came from his mouth.

The dagger was brought down several more times, and the black horse was stilled forever. Now Skolot could ride his favorite battle horse in the world of shadows.

Several priests came up to the wagon in which Skolot’s aged widow was sitting. Shudders passed through her body; her withered hands were pressed to her face. She was carried to the grave more dead than alive.

“Villains! To kill a woman, an old woman!” Artem cried out.

“It’s their custom,” Dmitro Borisovich mumbled without conviction. His archeological enthusiasm of a few minutes ago had evaporated. He did not say he was sorry he had lost his camera. He would not have been able to photograph such a horrible scene anyway.

The priests brought the hapless woman to the place where the slaughtered horse was lying. As she had fainted from fear, the priests had to carry her. A priest with a rope in his hands followed them. He was the ritual executioner who was to strangle the widow of the chieftain so she would follow her husband to the other world and be a good wife to him there.

At that moment, Artem saw a thin column of smoke rising in the distance beyond the crowd, from among the kibitkas. The smoke rose higher and higher in the still air; to an uninitiated observer, it was just smoke from a small campfire.

“Ronis has given his signal! It’s time to start, Varkan!”

But Artem was too late with his exclamation: Varkan had already given the signal to his men to go down the cliff. They descended the cliff nimbly and moved toward a cluster of trees that rose between the cliffs and the spot where the burial ceremony was taking place.

“Dmitro Borisovich! The signal’s been given!” Artem cried out in great excitement. “I’m going down with Varkan’s men!”

“What do you mean you’re going down? Do you suppose I’m going to stay here?”

Saying this, the archeologist grabbed his battle axe and began his descent. The ungainly archeologist had a hard time keeping his balance on the way down; it was especially difficult as his eyes were still riveted on the burial scene.

But duty was above everything for him! His friends needed help, and he must do whatever he could to help them.

The desperate cry of a woman reached them from the distance, making them shiver and halt on their way: it was the last cry of Skolot’s dying widow.

Artem and Dmitro Borisovich resumed their descent. Varkan’s men had already reached the grove. Artem knew that in response to the signal, Varkan’s men had to rush to the grove and wait there until the slaves engaged the enemy. This would give them a chance to get close to the enemy without being observed. Otherwise, they would be met by a hail of arrows and spears and the main attack would lose the advantage of surprise. To prevent this from happening, Ronis and his men had to engage the enemy and sustain battle for some time.

* * *

The grove, being much closer to the grave, allowed them to observe the Scythian crowd in much greater detail, but at the same time, being at ground level made it impossible for them to see what was going on by the grave. They could hear much better though. The monotonous, melancholy praying did not cease. Drowning all other sounds, it was occasionally pierced by the terrible heart-rending, high- pitched crying of a woman. It gave Artem the shivers to think that one of those cries could have come from Lida.

Varkan’s men were lying on the ground, hiding behind the trees of the grove, waiting patiently. One careless move could reveal their presence, and the consequences would be serious.

The absolute silence in the grove contrasted sharply with the monotonous song and piercing cries of the women. Artem’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest, threatening to burst. He kept telling himself that he must keep a cool head and relax, for the time of the decisive attack was near. But that was easier said than done!

The grove was still, filled with an extremely tense silence. No movement. Why wasn’t Ronis signalling for the attack to begin?

Artem heard the heavy breathing of Dmitro Borisovich at his side. The archeologist’s hands were tightly clasped around the handle of the axe. Then Dmitro Borisovich said in a barely audible whisper right into Artem’s ear:

“Where’s your weapon, Artem? Are you ready?”

Without saying anything, Artem indicated his sword with his eyes. The archeologist nodded his head to show that he thought it was not enough. Then the young man patted one of his pockets as if to say: don’t worry, everything’s all right; I have something else here, too. His most important weapon was ready for use at any moment the situation called for it to be employed.

Loud shouts made Artem and Dmitro Borisovich hold their breath. Had the slaves launched their attack?