Descendants of the Scythians

CHAPTER ONE

The explorers puzzle over the word poskina, and Artem duels with the old soothsayer; Dmitro Borisovich discovers that he can communicate with the Scythians and acts as an interpreter in the chieftain’s tent where the guests are treated to oksugala.

Dmitro Borisovich shrugged his shoulders:

“Well, if we must submit and go where they take us, we must. I wouldn’t say it’s the best way to get to know the way of life of the ancient Scythians… But…” He pulled his trilby hat which had miraculously survived all their misadventures down low over his eyes. “But it appears we have no choice… Hey, what are you up to?”

One of the riders, obviously having taken an interest in the very unusual — from his point of view — piece of headgear that the archeologist was wearing, had plucked it from his head with the spear and raised it into the air, demonstrating it to the others. This caused a brief but lively exchange among the riders.

It was Diana that changed the mood: she, taking offense on behalf of her friend, leaped into the air, growling threateningly. Zooming through the air, the boxer clasped the spear with the archeologist’s hat perched on it between her massive jaws with strong teeth and snapped it in two as if it were a straw. A muffled crunching sound could be heard; the trilby fell to the ground. The rider had some difficulty regaining control of his frightened horse that reared and pranced. The rider himself was also somewhat unnerved by the sudden attack, and he neither tried to prevent it nor did he attempt to inflict any punishment.

Diana meanwhile jumped back to the explorers’ sides, crouched, and bared her teeth, ready to fight for her friends. Dmitro Borisovich retrieved his trilby from the ground and clamped it on, muttering offendedly:

“What bad manners!… Good girl, Diana! Without you I’d’ve lost my hat…”

“Good for her — yes, but let’s hope it won’t aggravate the situation,” Ivan Semenovich said, glancing anxiously at the riders.

“I don’t think it will. Just look at them; see how upset they are. They must be in mortal fear of the dog by the looks of them,” Artem said.

The riders were in fact glancing at the dog in consternation. The boxer seemed to be the source of great fear. The rider whose spear had been broken by Diana threw the butt briskly into the bushes. He turned around to look back at the dog once again, then moved a little further away, repeating one and the same word over and over again:

“Poskina!… Poskina!…⁹¹

The rest of the riders also made it a point not to get near the dog, holding their spears and swords ready. The word poskina was on everybody’s lips.

“What’s the meaning of this poskina, I wonder,” Lida said to herself in a low voice.

No one volunteered an answer. One thing was clear anyway: the riders were reluctant to do anything to the tawny dog and she no doubt felt it. She growled fiercely again, then turning disdainfully away from the riders, she trotted over to Ivan Semenovich. The riders began prodding the explorers once again, urging them on. But now they did it in a much more careful manner, as though suddenly inspired with some respect for the new captives. Even the pushing was more an invitation than a command.

Artem smiled contentedly:

“Ah, thank you, dear Diana, for your timely interference!”

He expected the others to pick up on his joke and develop it, but Ivan Semenovich said soberly:

“We really must go, my friends. Let’s show reserve and caution. The situation is a serious one indeed. And don’t forget that our every movement is closely observed.”

The explorers captured the crowd’s attention. The singing and shouting stopped, the welcoming ceremony abandoned, for the Scythians were now staring at the strangers. A murmur of amazement rippled through the crowd. Even the captives — silent and resigned, concerned only with their own misfortune — turned to look at the new arrivals escorted by the riders. Even the chieftain, superior and indifferent up till then, was regarding the explorers with curiosity.

They walked under stares in which no benevolence could be discerned, feeling very much ill at ease but trying to look relaxed and dignified nonetheless. What else could they do?

Once again, the word first uttered by the riders was heard to rise above the crowd:

“Poskina! Poskina!”

The word passed from one Scythian to the other; they seemed to forget about the strangers, so much were they affected by the dog; they kept pointing at Diana, looking at her in consternation, and remarking in agitation:

“Poskina! Poskina!”

The only one who was indifferent to all this commotion was Diana herself. She walked quietly at the side of Ivan Semenovich, glancing every now and then at him with her intelligent eyes as though trying to convince her master of he.’* absolute loyalty.

“Poskina!… Poskina!” the word went around among the Scythians.

By now the explorers almost reached the place where the chieftain was sitting motionlessly on his horse, watching the strangers attentively. Artem could see his face in detail now. The tranquil, deep-set eyes under the beetling gray brows, half-covered by the lids; the long thin aquiline nose; the pallid lips, almost hidden by the gray mustache, the beard cascading onto his chest. The mustache moved slightly — the chieftain said a few incomprehensible words. He was obviously waiting for the strangers to answer.

Ivan Semenovich and Dmitro Borisovich exchanged glances: how could they find out what this man wanted of them? What had he asked, what should they reply? And even if they said something by way of reply, would he, in turn, understand them?

Another wave of agitated murmuring passed through the crowd; the Scythians, highly intrigued, were moving closer and closer to the strangers. Soon they were surrounded on three sides by a dense wall of humanity. On three sides, because where the fourth should have been Diana was sitting, and the Scythians pointedly avoided getting close to lier, all the more so since the dog, disturbed by so many strange humans moving in, gave the surging crowd warning looks. She bared her teeth and growled with some reserve. Just in case, Ivan Semenovich commanded:

“Quiet, Diana. Sit, sit still, and keep quiet!”

The dog looked at her master, wagged her docked tail submissively and stopped growling. But her lips kept lifting nervously; she bared her powerful fangs, showing that she was ready to come to the aid of her friends.

The chieftain, failing to get any reply from the strangers, said something else, this time in a more gentle, almost friendly tone. But once again, he got no reply. Noticing that the Scythians had crowded much too close to the strangers, he turned his head, annoyed, and gave some command to the riders, closest to him. They immediately rode forward and pushed the crowd back, making more room around the explorers.

The chieftain nodded his head in satisfaction.

“Good, this way it feels safer somehow,” Artem said.

The chieftain must have heard Artem’s voice because he turned his severe face toward the young man. But he did not say anything; he just looked Artem over from head to foot.

Suddenly the captives resumed their wailing. The burly priestesses evidently considered it necessary to go ahead with the sacrificial rite that had been interrupted by the arrival of the newcomers. They began singing a ritual song, their daggers pointed high, ready to strike.

“Ivan Semenovich, they’re going to kill them after all!”.Lida cried out in horror.

Artem was overcome with rage. He absolutely could not allow people to be slaughtered right before his eyes. Without giving heed to what Ivan Semenovich was urgently saying to him, he rushed to the altar, brandishing his pickaxe and shouting frantically.

“Stop it! Leave them alone I tell you! Stop!”

The priestesses, greatly perplexed, froze. They had evidently not expected the strangers to risk interfering. The crowd heaved in agitation. Artem was now standing at the altar, brandishing the pickaxe.

“Leave these people alone I tell you! Leave them alone!” he shouted.

The armed priestesses began retreating little by little, for Arlem was indeed terrible to look at: his eyes flashed fire, his pickaxe held high, his mouth opened wide, yelling at the top of his lungs:

“What wrong have they done? What you want to kill them for? Clear out, or else I’ll…”

He fell silent as he saw the old soothsayer take a step toward him. He was approaching Artem in his solemn manner, his long, bony arms raised, muttering something maliciously. A murmur went through the crowd. There was enraged malignity emanating from the old soothsayer’s cruel, forbidding face. The beady, piercing eyes bored into the young man.

“Hey, I don’t give a damn for your hypnotic tricks!” Artem bellowed angrily at the soothsayer. “Don’t you try to scare me. I’m not so easily frightened, I’m not. Hey, you, move off!”

With these words, he rushed up to the captives chosen for the sacrifice. The priestesses had gotten hold of them again. The soothsayer tried to block Artem’s way, but the young man pushed him aside unceremoniously and leapt forward. The soothsayer reeled and almost fell. Infuriated and humiliated, he drew out sword and swung it high ready to strike.

“Aha, so that’s the way you want it,” Artem said, stopping in his tracks. “All right, you asked for it, you old geezer!”

He leapt to the side and struck the raised sword with his pickaxe. Metal struck against metal. The old soothsayer had evidently not expected such parrying. The short sword fell to the ground a few paces away. The soothsayer shifted his eyes from the sword to Artem and back in dismay.

“You didn’t expect that, did you, eh? That’s enough for you! And you, leave these people alone, I tell you!”

In a moment, Artem was near the priestesses, brandishing his pickaxe, shouting incoherent threats. This performance would probably have made little impression on the priestesses, but the way the young man had treated the soothsayer had frightened them, too. It was probably the first time they had ever seen someone resist and overcome him. The subdued priestesses hastily retreated behind the altar and peeped out looking alternately at Artem and the soothsayer who, regaining control of himself, retrieved his sword and rushed up at the young man.

“So you haven’t had enough yet, you old fool?” Artem said, speaking through clenched teeth. “All right, just you wait!”

But the soothsayer did not raise his sword this time. A few paces away from the young man, he stopped, raised his arms into the air, and began muttering something. The Scythian crowd responded in a distressed manner. Even the captives, hearing the voice of the soothsayer, fell back from the young man. The soothsayer gesticulated wildly, as though drawing a picture in the air, then he doubled, straightened up again, only to bend up again and then stand over, his voice becoming more and more menacing. Artem understood, at last, what was going on.

“Ah, you’re putting a curse on me, you old cheat? All right, you’re welcome, go ahead, I don’t give a damn about your mumbo-jumbo. Just keep your distance, and do as much cursing as you like. What a performance, eh?” he said to the captives, noticing how horrified they were as they listened to the incantations of the soothsayer. “Don’t be afraid, it’s nothing but trash, all this gibberish.”

Now, cooling off a little, Artem realized that the situation _tcould not continue like this for much longer, and that he did not have much of a chance against the priestesses and the soothsayer if he stood alone. Something had to be done about the situation on the double. But what?

Meanwhile, the soothsayer seemed to have gone into a tantrum. There was foam on his livid lips, and his curses grew louder by the minute, though he still kept his distance.

Lida was looking at the young man with admiration. Dmitro Borisovich clenched the handle of the pickaxe in his hands; he seemed about to rush to Artem’s aid. Ivan Semenovich noticed the state the archeologist was in, and said, to calm him down:

“Wait, Dmitro Borisovich, wait. There’s still time. So far, Artem has been holding on his own just fine; you see for yourself.”

“But it might be too late if I wait!”

“No, it won’t, trust me. I know what I’m doing. We’ve got something in reserve yet. Diana, quiet!” He was holding the dog by the collar as she tried to run over to Artem.

The chieftain, grasping the gilded pommel of the saddle, seemed all eyes and ears, totally unlike his previous self when his face bore a mask of contemptuous indifference. He was now watching every move of the young stranger, and did not even hide his smile when Artem knocked the sword out of the soothsayer’s hand. He was listening to the frenzied incantations of the old soothsayer and glancing at Artem in astonishment, for apparently, the young man was not affected in any way. Then the chieftain turned his gaze to the young Scythian who had come forward earlier to greet him. The young stoop-shouldered Scythian was trembling with fright. He covered his face with his hands, evidently greatly terrified by the soothsayer’s shouting.

The old chieftain turned away disdainfully. One of the warriors asked him something, pointing at Artem with his spear. The chieftain shook his head and once again sat absolutely still.

At last the soothsayer realized that his curses were of no use against Artem. He shouted a command to the priestesses and gesticulated widely.

“Aha, he’s ordering them to seize our Artem!” Dmitro Borisovich said anxiously. “Now is the time to come to his aid. I’ll run over to him!”

“Wait,” said the geologist curtly.

“But they’ll seize him!”

“Stay where you are, I tell you,” commanded the geologist. “There’s still time!”

He was right. The priestesses did not dare to leave their place behind the altar despite the express commands of the soothsayer. They were engaged in a lively exchange but refused to submit to the order. Then the soothsayer, infuriated to the last measure, raised one hand threateningly, evidently intending to curse the priestesses. This was too much for them. Fearfully, holding their daggers out, they moved from behind the altar and stepped toward Artem.

“Oh, just you try it!” Artem stepped forward bravely.

But his voice betrayed a wavering resolve. The young man realized only too well that he had little chance with his small pickaxe against several adversaries armed with daggers and swords.

“Diana, help Artem!” Ivan Semenovich said under his breath, releasing his grasp on the dog’s collar. Diana leaped toward Artem, stopped at his side, and bared her teeth menacingly, facing the armed priestesses. The warning growl emphasized her serious intentions.

“Ah, now there are two of us!” Artem exclaimed in a much more cheerful voice. “Ivan Semenovich, thank you!

_VA11 right, now, you over there, come on, but be careful. Diana and I are going to tackle you in earnest!”

Without waiting for any response, he stepped forward, closer to the priestesses by the altar. The women immediately retreated, for the very appearance of the dog inspired mortal fear in them. Artem heard the now familiar:

“Poskina… Poskina!”

“Yeah, that sure is poskina,” Artem laughed out. He had regained his cheerful mood. “Poskina!”

He shouted the word as one would shout ‘Fire,’ in alarm. And in fact it had a profound effect on the Scythians. A tense silence fell over the field which even the old soothsayer was afraid to break.

“What does this word, so horrifying to them, really mean?” Ivan Semenovich asked the archeologist who just £hrugged his shoulders.

“It’s difficult to say… In Greek kyon means ‘dog.’ From the sound of it, it may be related. But perhaps it’s a taboo word. Taboo in the sense of a prohibition, a sacred, religious prohibition to do or touch something… That’s all I can suggest for now.”

Meanwhile, the priestesses again hid behind the altar, and the old soothsayer was helpless to budge them.

Artem, having regained his composure, gave Diana a pat on the back:

“Well, my dear little poskina, what are we going to do next? The old guy seems to have lost this round. Could you suggest anything to consolidate our victory, my canine friend?”

As the tension slackened, calm returned to the young man. There was nothing to be on guard against at the moment. It was now absolutely clear that Diana inspired mortal fear in the Scythians, but Artem couldn’t understand why. He kept on stroking the dog’s back, noting with satisfaction that it caused renewed squeals from behind the altar. In the priestesses’ eyes that must have been an unimaginably horrible thing to do: to stroke the abominable monster! Artem pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, his movements relaxed, and said, rolling the cigarette between his fingers:

“No time to have a smoke with all these rites and fights. Right, Diana?”

Ivan Semenovich chuckled, evidently seeing something droll in the situation; he poked the archeologist with his elbow to make him appreciate it; the archeologist even looked around, but failed to see anything potentially funny.

Artem put the cigarette into his mouth, lit it, inhaled with relish and exhaled a puff of smoke.

“Isn’t it great to have a smoke to relax a bit!”

An unprecedented hush fell over the pinkish-yellow field. The crowd froze into absolute immobility — not a word, not a movement. Even the chieftain gaped, looking at Artem inhaling and exhaling smoke. Artem released a thin jet of smoke and said:

“Why have they grown so quiet, Diana? Haven’t they ever seen anyone smoke before?”

Little by little, the talking resumed. The Scythians began to gesticulate excitedly, pointing at the young man by the altar with the smoke coming out of his mouth. It was the strangest thing they had seen that day. The priestesses had meanwhile stealthily crept away from the altar and disappeared into the crowd: they apparently considered it safer to keep as far as possible from the young man who was not afraid even of the terrible curses of the soothsayer, and who himself was conjuring up unseen tricks. The old soothsayer, who had probably never seen anything like it either, was also slinking away.

At last, Artem threw the cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it, saying to the captives:-

“Why are you standing here? Go back to your crowd. The show’s over.”

He even pushed them gently toward the crowd of captives. They began retreating slowly and timidly, never turning their backs on the young man. Artem shook his head, saying compassionately:

“My, how scared they are, poor things!”

Then he turned and began walking back to his friends. Diana ran by his side. Wherever he passed, the Scythians fell silent, looking at him with respect and fear, waiting for the smoke to come from his mouth again.

“Well, that’s how things turned out,” Artem said as he came up to his friends, trying to hide his increasing embarrassment. He had failed to obey the explicit command of Ivan Semenovich, rushing as he did to the altar, endangering them all. “Ivan Semenovich, upon my word, I couldn’t help it…” There was some trepidation in his voice as though he were apologizing.

“All right, all right, Arlem. We’ll speak about it later. Let’s see what happens next,” the geologist said unexpectedly complacently.

But what was the matter with Lida? Her eyes were wet; she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Very strange!

“I was so worried about you, Artem, dear,” she said softly.

Surprisingly enough, Artem did not know what to say in response. He grabbed Lida’s small hand instead and squeezed it passionately. Dmitro Borisovich took his other hand and shook it, saying solemnly:

“My dear young friend, you are a real man! I… I congratulate you!” His pointed beard shook with excitement.

Now Artem was completely baffled. What had he done that merited congratulations and concern? Even Ivan Semenovich was not angry with him and did not rebuke him, which was good in itself.

“Attention, my friends!” the geologist said suddenly. “The old chieftain is talking about us.”

The chieftain was indeed saying something, pointing to the explorers. Then he beckoned the old soothsayer to come nearer. The soothsayer did so, boiling with anger, though trying to conceal it. Their conversation did not last long. It was the chieftain who did most of the talking, while the soothsayer listened* with growing annoyance. He even tried to contradict the mounted man once, but the chieftain raised his voice. The soothsayer bent his head submissively, rolling his beady eyes, clenching his fists in impotent fury.

“What a repulsive creature he is!” Lida said under her breath, noticing that Artem was looking at the soothsayer.

The young Scythian who had stepped forward to greet the old chieftain did not take his eyes off Lida, which made Artem angry. The misshapen Scythian seemed to feel he was being stared at; he gave a quick sidelong glance, saw the suspicious gaze of Artem and immediately turned away; their eyes crossed only for a moment, but it was enough to catch the hostility which filled his stare.

Who is that guy? Artem thought. He’s no just anybody because he’s dressed so richly… there’s so many shiny little gold things all over his garb… And he’s holding himself more confidently than the rest whenever the old chieftain is not looking at him, of course.

Meanwhile the conversation between the chieftain and the soothsayer ended. The soothsayer bowed low and walked off. Artem observed him attentively, not liking his cunning, scowling face. Passing by the stoop-shouldered young Scythian, the old soothsayer made a slight movement with his head. The young Scythian responded with the quick, darting glance and immediately lowered his eyes submissively.

“Aha, there’s something fishy here,” Artem remarked. “He’s got to be watched.”

But truth to tell, he forgot about his observations a moment later when he saw a more modestly dressed Scythian with only one gold badge on his helmet, approach the chieftain. Another Scythian moved behind him, his appearance differing from the rest — his face was swarthy and beardless; he was quiet and unconstrained. The chieftain addressed himself to the young Scythian with the gold badge on the helmet. Surprisingly enough, his stern voice was much warmer now; he was speaking in a friendly tone, even gently. After the chieftain had finished, the young Scythian bowed, then turned and said a few words to the beardless man behind him; afterwards, the two of them walked over to the captives. The beardless man began speaking to the captives like their superior, not someone alien. He seemed to be reassuring them.

It was at this point that an unexpected and important event took place.

“My friends, I… err… I seem to understand some of what is being said by that man with the swarthy complexion…” Dmitro Borisovich said in excitement. The three explorers turned to look at him in surprise. “Yes, without any doubt, I can make out something! Not everything, of course, but… It’s ancient Greek the way one would expect it to sound, but mixed heavily with some other language, exactly the way the parchment was!”

“Oh! You understand him? What’s he saying?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Don’t distract me! He says that they are forgiven for their escape…”

“What escape? Did they attempt an escape?”

“Oh, do keep quiet! They are pardoned for their attempted escape, and will be allowed to go on working as before… ah, what a pity I don’t understand all of what’s being said! Now he is comforting them… Isn’t it extraordinary that we will be able to communicate with them! Now he says that…”

But Dmitro Borisovich did not have the chance to find out what was being said as the chieftain turned to the explorers.

He did not say anything this time but made such an eloquent gesture inviting them to follow that it was impossible not to understand. Then the chieftain jerked the reins and his horse stepped forward.

“He invites us to follow him,” Artem interpreted the gesture. “What shall we do, Ivan Semenovich?”

“We’ll follow him, but we must control ourselves, no matter what. Do you understand, Artem?” Ivan Semenovich said emphatically.

“I give you my word of honor, Ivan Semenovich. I’ll do my best!”

Surrounded by the riders, the explorers were now following the old chieftain on foot. The circle of armed men around them made them feel annoyed and constrained. The riders did not show any signs of hostility toward the explorers, and yet the latter could not help feeling that they were captives.

“The stoop-shouldered guy is coming with us, too,” Artem said. “And he’s staring at you all the time, Lida. Do you see?”

“That one, you mean? What a horrid creature he is!”

“But he seems to like you very much. He’s not taking eyes off you!”

“Oh, come off it! And don’t tell me anything else about him, because every time I look at him, it gives me creeps. He’s so repulsive and slimy!”

But a half-minute later Lida couldn’t resist casting a glance at the misshapen Scythian to see if he was still staring at her. He was indeed, and was even smiling at her! But even his smile was lopsided, as though he was smiling with only half of his face.

“Artem, who do you think he is?”

“I couldn’t care less and don’t want to think about him,” Artem replied gloomily.

“Oh, stop that, Artem dear. I’m serious.”

“I’m also quite serious.”

“Oh, come off it! It seems to me that he’s related to the chieftain.”

“What gave you that idea? You’re always thinking things up!”

“Have a closer look, Artem! He resembles the chieftain, but the old man is likable… and the young one is disgusting.”

“Hm… all right, I’ll have a look later. It’s rather rude to do it now.”

On all sides of Artem and his friends rode silent warriors with stern faces. They were holding long spears with stylized metal representations of lions, panthers and spread eagles. The Scythians were holding them solemnly above their chieftain’s head. Most of the spears were topped with resting panthers but some were clawing or tearing their prey with their fangs. All were fierce and had short muzzles.

These panthers and eagles probably serve as battle standards for them, Artem thought. He was about to take his gaze elsewhere when an indistinct but insistent thought stirred in the depths of his mind. It sometimes happens that a person notices something and subconsciously registers the observation but cannot say what it is. However, when this memory comes back, it distracts and disturbs as though persistently demanding to be analyzed and transferred to the consciousness. Either one such memory of all of them together was making Artem irksome, reminding him of something familiar.

“Artem, look over there! Diana’s scared them again!” Lida burst into a loud laugh.

“Where?”

“Over there, in front of us!”

Two riders were indeed fighting for control of their horses which reared and pranced, frightened by the dog.

Suddenly Artem struck his forehead with his hand, the gesture of someone upon whom an idea has dawned.

“My friends! Ivan Semenovich! That’s what it is: I know now! I understand at last!”

“What do you know?”

“What have you understood, Artem dear?”

“I know what the word poskina means! And understand why all of them fear our Diana so much!”

“Why?”

“Because she looks exactly like their representations of panthers or whatever they are. And the word means ‘panther’ or whatever they call these ferocious creatures!”

“What panthers you’re talking about? And how do you know the word means ‘panther’?”

“Have a look at the images on the spears!”

“Oh, that really is so! Artem dear, you’re so smart!”

There was indeed some truth behind Artem’s reasoning. A boxer dog just like Diana might well have been the model for their panthers. The same short muzzle, the same fangs! No wonder the Scythians feared Diana! She was evidently a living incarnation of the sacred panther! That was why no one dared even to approach the dog, much less touch her or, God forbid, make her angry.

“I believe you’re right, my young friend,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “You’ve really got an observing eye! You keep proving it all the time! You made excellent suggestions when we were examining the parchment and the box, and then on our way through the cave… Panther… panther… most interesting! Pos-kina… If we accept that kina is a distorted Greek word for ‘dog,’ here it could mean ‘any dog-like creature,’ and in combination with pos it would give us the meaning of ‘panther.’ And yet it’s not quite clear — we know the Scythians had domesticated dogs. So why should they be so frightened by our Diana? She does resemble a panther somewhat, it must be admitted… and yet… it’s strange!”

The archeologist, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued muttering something under his breath long after Artem had stopped listening to him. Artem was beaming with satisfaction: he had managed to solve the mystery, his mind was free from a nagging riddle; everything had fallen into place. But was everything really clear now?…

Meanwhile they had reached a kibitka, which was much bigger than the other ones. It was standing a little apart, resting on a six-wheeled wagon. There was a huge representation of an eagle with wings spread wide on top of it. The fabric of the tent was dyed red; the flaps were turned back.

“This must be where the chieftain lives,” the archeologist said, sounding very interested. “Aha, this really is the place!”

The chieftain dismounted with the bent young Scythian’s assistance. Before he entered the kibitka, he once again invited the strangers to follow him with sweeping gesture of his hand. Then he disappeared into the kibitka, his companions filing in after him. Only the misshapen Scythian remained behind. He bowed before the strangers, bending his head respectfully, and said something solemnly. As he was doing this, he looked at Lida from the corner of his eye. A smile, like a shadow, passed over his lips so fleetingly, that only Artem noticed it.

“I don’t like him,” the young man said in a low voice.

“Neither do I,” replied Lida.

“Now, my friends, we must go in. To tell the truth, I’m dying to see with my own eyes what’s inside this big kibitka,” Dmitro Borisovich broke in. “Just think — we are going to get to know how the ancient Scythians lived! Only in a dream could one hope for such a thing!”

“But maybe we are dreaming, Dmitro Borisovich!” the geologist said, laughing. “How else could all this phantasmagoria we’re going through be explained?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the archeologist replied drily. “All I can say is that I’d be very glad if I could go on dreaming like this for as long as possible to see as much as we can!”

Ivan Semenovich glanced at Lida and Artem archly and shrugged in surrender: it was impossible to win an argument against Dmitro Borisovich when it concerned the ancient Scythians.

They entered the kibitka single file.

Inside, it was round and conical, with the light coming in through a big opening overhead. The floor was covered with thick, richly-decorated multi-colored carpets; small cushions were strewn along the walls. The same type of cushions were lying on top of the two large chests secured with large bronze studs and bound in wide bronze strips.

The chieftain was already seated on a soft rug. Without his gold helmet he appeared less stern than before. Or maybe his severity had gone because now he was smiling; his movements were light and devoid of the solemnity and marked dignity he had displayed when he was riding at the head of his warriors.

A younger Scythian with a small curly beard was standing by his side. It was the man with the single gold badge on his helmet to whom the chieftain had talked in a gentle voice. Artem felt at once that he shared the chieftain’s liking for this man. The open, energetic face with a small dark mustache and beard, clear eyes and a tall forehead — all his features inspired affinity. Artem stole a glance at Lida: what was her reaction toward this man? But Lida was occupied with herself.

Seeing a small shiny bronze plate with ornaments all around it attached to a pole standing in the center of the kibitka and extending into the hole above, she was quick to realize what purpose it served. It was clear that this piece of polished bronze was used as a mirror. And Lida was taking advantage of the opportunity to fix her hair.

“Oh, you’re beautiful enough without all that fuss,” Artem said a little mockingly. “Don’t you think so?”

Lida flushed. The chieftain also noticed that the girl was sprucing herself up before the bronze mirror. He laughed and said a few words to the young Scythian. This embarrassed Lida totally, and she stepped aside, closer to the explorers.

The chieftain, still keeping his genial smile, invited his guests to sit down on the carpet. They lowered themselves onto the carpet obediently and gladly as the fatigue caused by all the events of the extraordinary day had begun to tell.

“Good. At least we’ll have some rest,” Ivan Semenovich said contentedly, making himself comfortable. “But how are we going to communicate? To use only signs would be very inconvenient. Dmitro Borisovich, what if you try your nncient Greek on them?”

“My ancient Greek has grown so rusty…”

“But give it a try nevertheless. It may turn out to be very helpful.”

Dmitro Borisovich, painfully searching for words, slowly made up his first phrase. Despite its very awkward — in the archeologist’s opinion — construction, the chieftain and the younger Scythian opened their eyes wide in surprise. They bent forward, listening with the greatest attention. Dmitro Borisovich repeated his phrase. The eyes of the younger Scythian shone with the joy of understanding.

“Oh, they do understand!” Artem cried out triumphantly.

The younger Scythian replied, then Dmitro Borisovich said something else and the conversation was under way. It was not an easy conversation, for it was interrupted whenever Dmitro Borisovich lacked the words to express himself and had to use gestures and signs, but it was a real exchange nevertheless. After a while, the archeologist, wiping the profuse perspiration from his brow, told his friends:

“The old chieftain’s name is Skolot. This attractive man is Varkan. They both like us and are very interested to know more about us.”

Hearing their names, the Scythians nodded their heads one alter the other. Then the chieftain clapped his hands. Shortly a big bronze bowl and several smaller ones were brought in. The chieftain solemnly pointed to the bowl, inviting the guests to try its contents.

“He’s inviting us to drink some of what’s inside,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “I wonder what kind of beverage it is. Could it be…”

He stopped short as though reluctant to say something that would be out of place but without taking his eyes off the bowl.

“It must be some kind of alcoholic drink,” Artem volunteered his opinion. “What else would one offer his guests?”

Once again the young man proved to be right. The bowl did contain some intoxicating drink, sweetish, thick, fragrant and milky in color; it was neither wine nor any other familiar liquor.

Dmitro Borisovich sipped at it, swallowing it in tiny gulps, trying to determine what it was made of. Ivan Semenovich, guessing what was on the archeologist’s mind, said with conviction:

“There’s one thing I can say for sure — it’s not made of grapes.”

’ Of course not, but that was clear right from the start,” Artem responded immediately. “Who ever saw wine made of such whitish grapes? Besides, would vines grow here?”

“Young man, keep quiet,” the archeologist said stiffly. “I think… I think it’s… nothing else but… Yes, it must be oksugala…”

“Oks what?”

“Oksugala… How depressing it is to talk with young people who are so ignorant of even the most basic facts of history and archeology! What a shame!”

“I’m sorry, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said, resignedly bending his head, but at the same time glancing archly at Lida.

“As I said it must be the oksugala mentioned by the ancient historians who stated that in addition to meat, the usual nourishment of the ancient Scythians was milk and all kinds of dairy products. That’s why the Scythians were often referred to as ‘milk-drinkers’ or ‘mare’s milk users’.”

“Sounds very poetic, doesn’t it?” Artem whispered to Lida who nearly burst out laughing. But Dmitro Borisovich, carried away by his historical observations, oblivious of anything around him, went on:

“So, as I was saying, I believe it’s the oksugala of the ancients, that is, fermented mare’s milk. The tribes of nomadic Scythians had great herds of horses. Incidentally, we’ve already seen such a herd… The nomadic Scythians ate horse flesh and drank mare’s milk. They made cheese of mare’s milk, too, and prepared various beverages and drinks from it — oksugala, for example.” Then he added: “Of course, horses were not the only domesticated animals the Scythians had. They also had oxen, hornless, by the way…”

“Pollards,” Artem broke in, eager to show that he knew the technical term.

“Yes, that’s the correct term. According to the ancients, the local breed of oxen did not grow horns as it was too cold for them. As I was saying, the Scythians had domesticated sheep, swine, and goats. We know — note this — that the Scythians did have dogs, so it’s not quite clear why our hosts should be so afraid of Diana. Maybe here, under these… er… specific conditions, all the dogs died out long ago. I would not risk expounding on this subject…” Dmitro Borisovich had another mouthful of oksugala.

Artem cleared his throat and said:

“Dmitro Borisovich, when speaking about the soothsayer garbed in that ridiculous woman’s dress, you used the strange word ‘androgyne’ or something like that. What does it mean?”

“Oh, it means ‘a human being that combines the features of both sexes.’ You see, according to the ancients, the Scythian priesthood was mostly made up of women, not men…”

“Like the ones we saw?” Lida asked. Artem even put down his cup.

“Yes. Herodotus says that if some men did happen to become priests, they were only ‘androgynes,’ effeminate persons wearing women clothes.”

“But you couldn’t call our soothsayer ‘effeminate’ — he’s so bony and has a long gray beard. Only his dress looked like a woman’s,” Ivan Semenovich protested.

“It’s difficult to say now what he looked many years ago. Who knows, maybe when he was young, he was very effeminate. Besides, I want to remind you of the priestesses who, on his orders, seized the three captives. They were women, were they not?”

“Well, yes, they were,” Artem drawled in reluctant agreement. “But those women could give hell to any man…

Incidentally, did these Scythians have a matriarchy or what?”

“That could very well have been the case, my friend,” Dmitro Borisovich said pensively. “You see, in this general area, the neighboring tribe of the Scythians was that of the Sauromathae who were known to have a matriarchy in its classical form — the head of the tribe was a woman. No doubt, it had some impact on the attitude to women among the Scythians as well. Further east, and in Central Asia, some other tribes related to the Scythians — the Sacae and Massagetae — even had warrior queens…”

“Oh, really?” Lida said in amazement.

“Yes, of course,” Dmitro Borisovich said emphatically. “For example, Queen Zarina inflicted a shuttering defeat on the Persian King Cyrus, captured him and had him decapitated; his head was then put into a bag and filled with the blood of many Persians… The Scythian women were excellent riders, took part in military campaigns and showed themselves worthy warriors, not at all inferior to men, and in many cases superior. We found evidence supporting this in the Scythian and Sauromathian barrows where women were buried with their weapons. I think that the Scythian custom of having female priesthood dates back to those very early matriarchal times. And our soothsayer must have looked androgynous when young. His effeminacy has worn off with the passage of time, but he has kept his lady’s dress. But we’ll probably learn about all these things in more detail later on… Incidentally, the oksugala is excellent, upon my word it is! How do you find it, Ivan Semenovich?” the archeologist said at the end of his improvised lecture.

“Yes, I find your oksugala quite palatable,” Ivan Semenovich said, wiping his lips with the inside of his hand. “Only be careful, my friends! Don’t get carried away! It’s very intoxicating!”

Agitated voices, filled with menace, came from outside. The chieftain raised his head, and Varkan rushed out. He returned almost immediately and reported something to the chieftain. Dmitro Borisovich turned to his friends, his face grave.

“Varkan says that the soothsayer is up to something else,” the archeologist explained. “He’s uttering imprecations on us. Varkan will go find out what he wants now. Skolot asks us not to worry.”

The explorers exchanged glances. The situation boded ill. Varkan put on his helmet and went out. Artem looked after him and shook his head. It’d be nice to find out what’s going on, he thought.

Choosing a moment when no one was looking in his direction, Artem stealthily crept out from the kibitka, hoping nobody would stop him. Nobody did.

CHAPTER TWO

The old soothsayer pronounces his imprecations and incantations to the accompaniment of a subterranean thunderstorm and in the end gets what he wants; the explorers are taken to a black kibitka where Lida is at first disgusted by the fresh schemings of the misshapen Scythian and then pleasantly surprised by the unexpected reappearance of Varkan.

Varkan leapt onto a horse tethered by the kibitka and galloped away with a handful of other warriors. As Artem was following him with his eyes, he thought: Looks that the old troublemaker has come up with something more serious this time. Otherwise Varkan would not be in such a hurry. And it probably concerns us… So what should I do?

The decision had come to him at once — he must learn the intentions of the old soothsayer. Varkan had galloped away in the direction from which the explorers had been brought to the chieftain’s. This much was clear to Artem who had a good very sense of direction.

So, I’ll follow Varkan. It’d naturally be much faster to get there on horseback, but I don’t have a mount, and there’s nothing to be done about it so I’ll have to go on foot… How quickly dusk has fallen! And the clouds have become much darker. Is the local night approaching at last?

A great black cloud was sailing across the sky, looming heavily over the forest, making the low sky seem even lower. Apparently, it was this cloud that was the cause of the premature dusk. Now the cloud had covered the sky almost entirely. The pinky-yellowish coloring of the plants had changed perceptibly, acquiring a purplish tint. Everything seemed fantastic, unreal, and artificial in this mysterious glow. Was it a thunderstorm approaching? Was it a clap of thunder he had just heard in the distance?… A subterranean thunderstorm? How could that be possible?

Artem quickened his pace. He decided it was no good wasting time trying to solve the puzzle he and his friends had had to face during the course of a single extraordinary day; there were so many inexplicable things they had encountered that it was really better to take them as they were, matter-of-factly, without trying to rationalize them. Anyway, neither Ivan Semenovich nor Dmitro Borisovich could provide any plausible explanations. In such a situation, it was advisable to deal only with those developments that concerned the four of them at any given moment. The time would come to ponder the rest of the puzzles.

So, the first thing on Artem’s mind was to find out what kind of scheme the old soothsayer had cooked up now, and to what extent it concerned him and his friends. As Artem thought about it, the fierce bony face, the piercing cold eyes of the soothsayer loomed large in his mind. It was, indeed, the face of a cruel man, a werewolf, who would not stop short of murder if somebody interfered with his plans.

At that moment, he saw a big crowd at the next bend in the road and stopped. He also heard shouts and general agitated murmur coming from the people. They’re headed for the chieftain’s kibitka! the thought crossed Artem’s mind. There were several horsemen riding back and forth in front of the crowd. They gradually retreated as the mass of bodies pressed forward. The riders seemed to be trying to halt the progress of the crowd, urging their horses to push the people back with their chests, but the crowd was too much excited to be turned away, and pressed inexorably forward, step by step. The horses reared and pranced; one of the riders was almost knocked out of the saddle.

The riders must be Varkan and his warriors! Artem thought.

The riders were now in full retreat. Artem caught sight of a rather short figure in a hectic movement between the retreating riders and the crowd, his hands raised threateningly high into the air. Artem recognized the old soothsayer who was advancing on the riders, shouting, losing his breath in the process, and uttering imprecations in his unpleasant voice. He pointed to the sky, to the big cloud that loomed so low as to touch the people’s heads, and waved his arms wildly.

He must be scaring them with something, damn the old geezer! Artem thought.

Varkan rode toward the soothsayer, but other riders lagged behind, leaving Varkan alone to face the soothsayer. The old man took advantage of this chance and raised his arms even higher, shouting something in a frenzy. In response to this howling, the front rows surged forward and rushed at Varkan. Another moment, and he would be thrown from his horse, but Varkan had not lost his nerve: he jerked the reins, making the horse leap to the side and rear. Then the horse turned and bore the brave Scythian to the rest of the warriors. Without halting, Varkan shouted a few short words to the riders who galloped away all together, probably headed for the chieftain’s kibitka.

The crowd rushed after the riders, shouting triumphantly. The old soothsayer ran in front of it, several Scythians close by his side. One could only wonder at the old man’s agility and vigor. And it was probably this agility that impressed the Scythians, who followed him, running and shouting hostile words.

“Ah, I don’t like the way the things are developing,” Artem grumbled. “If they catch sight of me, I’ll be in big trouble… and there’s nowhere to hide…”

The situation was indeed growing desperate, all the more so since more Scythians began appearing from nearby kibitkas evidently attracted by the shouts of the crowd. There was nowhere for the young man to hide; he could be seized either by those Scythians who were running after the riders or by those who were pouring out of their kibitkas. At that moment, Artem saw that the riders were already quite near him.

“Varkan!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Varkan, help!’’

The Scythian, seeing Artem, uttered a cry of surprise. He reined in his horse abruptly. Varkan reached his hand to Artem and pulled the youth up behind him. The moment Artem was firmly installed, Varkan galloped away, catching up with the rest of the riders. Artem was sitting on the horse’s croup, holding on to the Scythian’s shoulders with his hands. A new wave of shouting came from the infuriated crowd. Artem turned his head to look back and saw the crowd, much swelled in size, rolling after them, the soothsayer at its head as before.

It looks as if it’s us they’re after, Artem thought, and this very disturbing idea made his flesh creep. But soon everything would become clear. In a few moments, the riders stopped at the red tent of the chieftain.

Artem leapt down from the horse and rushed in, impatient to break the news to his friends. If the old soothsayer was, in fact, stirring up animosity toward the strangers, Artem and his friends had to get ready to defend themselves, to do something about it… But what, Artem could not say. Seeing the disturbed, questioning expressions on the faces of his friends, who turned to him as he burst in, he cried out:

“A great crowd is on its way here! The soothsayer’s leading them! They’ll be here any moment now!”

Lida went pale, Ivan Semenovich clenched his teeth, and Dmitro Borisovich began to rise. The old chieftain had, naturally, understood nothing of what Artem had said, and only looked at him questioningly.

“And what is it they want?” Ivan Semenovich asked at last.

“I don’t know. They attacked Varkan… They’re pushing forward and are on their way here… They seem incensed at something.”

That was all Artem could say, but just then, Varkan entered the kibitka and began telling his story, addressing himself to both the chieftain and Dmitro Borisovich. The chieftain frowned.

“What is he saying?” Ivan Semenovich asked the archeologist.

“I do not understand. He must have forgotten I don’t speak Scythian. But judging from the way he sounds, it must be pretty bad.”

Abruptly, Skolot interrupted Varkan and picked up his helmet from the rug. His hand gripped the golden handle of his short sword. Without rising, he pointed at the guests.

Varkan understood. He turned to Dmitro Borisovich and spoke again — this time in Greek. The archeologist listened to him attentively, pulling anxiously at his beard.

“Well, what’s he telling you?” Ivan Semenovich asked impatiently.

“He says that the soothsayer has instigated the Scythians to come here to Skolot and demand that we be given to the priests. The soothsayer warns of the gods’ wrath, scaring the people with an approaching thunderstorm, saying that lightning will strike them dead and rocks will begin to fall on their heads for their disobedience to the soothsayer. The soothsayer also says that the gods are already angry at the Scythians because Skolot would not allow us to be sacrificed…”

Artem saw the shrewd move of the soothsayer: he had used the approaching thunderstorm for his purpose, and thunderstorms were evidently rare in those parts.

“Ivan Semenovich, there really is a thunderstorm coming. I’ve seen it,” he said. “The whole sky — or maybe not the real sky but whatever they have here for a sky — is covered with dark clouds, and the soothsayer apparently wants to use the occasion to scare the wits out of the Scythians.” Ivan Semenovich remained silent, pondering the problem. The archeologist began speaking again:

“Varkan says that the Scythians are indeed frightened. They fear that the rocks will start tumbling from the sky. That’s strange, since according to what we know about the Scythians from historical sources, they were not afraid of thunderstorms. But here they…” Dmitro Borisovich spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Ivan Semenovich shrugged his shoulders:

“Your historical sources might have had their reasons, but don’t forget that the conditions here are rather peculiar. The falling rocks mentioned by Varkan — isn’t that a good enough reason to be afraid of thunderstorms?”

Lida glanced at the geologist in surprise:

“Rocks? Do you believe rocks can really fall from the sky here during thunderstorms?”

“I don’t see why we should regard this idea as impossible. Don’t forget where we are. Powerful electric discharges can, of course, dislodge huge pieces of rock in the mountains, sending them down into this valley… Have you forgotten that in all likelihood, we are in an enormous subterranean cavity, a sort of gigantic cave?”

Now, when this idea had been expressed at last, it sounded incredible, and yet it was the only plausible explanation. Ivan Semenovich seemed to be the only person among the four explorers who had the presence of mind to think of the actual state of things. The presence of Scythians in this subterranean cavity of unthinkable size could be regarded as highly enigmatic and baffling, but still he never forgot they were somewhere underground in a gigantic cave where everything, from the chimerical yellow-pinkish plants to an underground thunderstorm with rocks raining from the sky, was highly unusual and unique. To arrive at an ultimate explanation that would take all these things into account was still impossible, the more so since there was no time to ponder it properly.

Diana, who up to the moment had been lying quietly on the rug in the kibitka, got to her feet and rushed to the exit, growling threateningly. Loud shouts poured in from outside.

Skolot rose slowly to his feet and walked out of the kibitka, his hand on the golden hilt of his sword, his countenance growing more concerned by the minute. Varkan followed him, giving the strangers a glance of consideration and encouragement to indicate that they were not to worry too much. Ivan Semenovich replied with an expressive gesture: we’re doing fine. Then he addressed himself to his friends:

“I think we should follow them. There’s nothing much for us to do here.”

They left the kibitka one by one. The geologists’ knit brows and set jaws indicated his determination to fight if need be; Dmitro Borisovich clutched the handle of his pickaxe firmly. Lida’s green eyes shone big on her pale face; she was biting her lip nervously.

“Are you scared? I can assure you…” Artem began grandly.

“Don’t waste words, Artem,” Lida cut him short. “I’m prepared to face anything. Let’s go!” Lida spoke with a trembling voice, but all in all, she was in control of herself. Brave girl!

The agitated murmur of the big crowd subsided when Skolot appeared from the red kibitka accompanied by Varkan and his warriors in battle leather and metal helmets. Even the old soothsayer standing in front of the crowd grew quiet. He scrutinized the stern face of Skolot, apparently trying to discover some signs of indecision which would indicate that he could press his case further. But the chieftain’s dignified expression revealed only imperturbability and self-control. He clenched his hands into fists, waiting for the proper moment.

Then another round of shouts rang out from the crowd: the strangers appeared from the tent. There was resentment, animosity, even hatred in those shouts, for the crowd had been incited by the soothsayer and his henchmen. Without any encouragement from the old soothsayer, the Scythians began moving in on the red kibitka.

Abruptly the chieftain stepped forward and shouted something, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. The crowd immediately fell silent. Those in front even began pushing backwards, retreating before Skolot, whose eyes burned with anger under the gold helmet. Now, not a single sound came from the crowd.

“See, our Skolot does have some authority over the Scythians,” Artem whispered to Lida.

But the girl did not listen: her attention was taken by the disgusting misshapen man, the one who resembled Skolot. He had appeared as though from nowhere at the side of explorers. Lida remembered that he had entered the chieftain’s kibitka together with them, but disappeared shortly after as she could not remember his being anywhere near them during the talk with the chieftain.

Now the misshapen Scythian was peeping from behind Varkan’s shoulder. He seemed to be waiting for something or looking for someone. His face was tense, the cunning eyes half-closed; he was leaning awkwardly forward, his left arm which was much longer than the right one, almost reaching the ground. Lida said, indicating the Scythian to Artem with her eyes:

“Where did he come from? Look, the stoop-shouldered one’s here again. Why had he come?”

“Yes, I already noticed him standing there. He’s a harbinger of evil to be sure,” Artem said gloomily.

“I don’t quite get you.”

“Oh, every time he appears, he brings some trouble for.”

“Arlem, I don’t think you know what you’re saying. You sound as though you were superstitious.”

“Superstitious or not, I’d gladly beat him to a bloody pulp!”

“Oh, Artem!”

Once again the voice of Skolot could be heard: the chieftain seemed to be asking the crowd a question. The sudden distant clap of thunder cut him short and sent a wave of renewed agitation through the crowd which started somewhere in the back and rolled forward to subside only at the red kibitka. But it had given a new impetus to the old soothsayer. The situation was ripe for action.

With his arms raised high into the air, the soothsayer began slowly advancing toward Skolot, glancing emphatically upward at the black cloud. The chieftain held his ground, standing motionless, clenching his fingers ever tighter on the hilt of the sword, his eyes riveted on the old man.

Lida caught a glimpse of the misshapen Scythian’s eyes flashing with joy and malice, but a moment later, all signs of emotion disappeared, as though this man had a special ability to sense someone’s gaze on him. He gave the strangers a quick side glance and immediately turned away, feigning complete indifference to everything around him. What a disgusting, revolting person, Lida thought. There was something of a spider in him. It was strange that she should feel such revulsion toward him, for she did not have anything in particular against him; he had not done her any harm; on the contrary, she caught him looking at her benignly, even with some interest. So, why should she be so disgusted at the proximity of this person? And Artem experienced a similar revulsion toward him, perhaps even stronger. There must have been some reason for it! Both Artem and Lida felt subconsciously that the misshapen Scythian was an enemy, perfidious and wily.

Without lowering his arms, the soothsayer launched into another harangue. His voice sounded threateningly; he began demanding something, pointing to the huge black cloud overhead. Then he stopped, craftily making a pause, like a skilled orator or actor. And in the silence, another clap of thunder resounded — this time much closer. The soothsayer seemed to have been waiting for precisely this. He started screaming something at the top of his lungs. Then he turned to the crowd, addressing it rather than Skolot. Discordant shouts of approval came from the mass of people milling about.

The old soothsayer made an expressive gesture, symbolically removing the strangers from Skolot’s side and handing them over to the crowd. Then he pointed no less expressively to the ominous cloud straight overhead. His hands were in constant motion, as though he were tearing something that hindered and resisted him, apart; his every movement drew a clamorous response from the frantic, overwrought crowd.

Skolot shook his head, stretching out his arms as though in defense of the strangers. But the soothsayer made another step forward, yelling a long imprecation. Whether he had finished speaking or stopped at the right moment was impossible to say, but the blinding lightning lit up the scene, putting a frightening emphasis on his last words. The crowd was scared into immediate silence, and this unnatural, terrifying silence was filled with an ear-shredding clap of thunder, rolling from one end of the sky to the other.

Artem saw the dismayed, shocked faces of the Scythians. He saw the gray old men tremble with fear, scared out of their wits by the lightning, the thunder and soothsayer’s malediction. There was only one thing missing to complete the picture — rocks raining from the sky as Varkan said they would… There was little doubt that such powerful bolts could, in fact, dislodge large rocks from their places higher up in the surrounding mountains and send them rolling down. This thought made Artem look up, but he saw only the seething cloud that seemed almost to be touching his head. The old soothsayer could not have chosen a better moment to get hold of the strangers.

Meanwhile the old man began speaking again, his voice even more menacing. He moved toward the strangers, flailing his arms. He walked straight ahead, ignoring both the chieftain and the warriors around. The frantic crowd followed him. Lida shuddered and grabbed Artem’s hand — it was a terribly frightening picture indeed.

Skolot made a move to protect his guests. As he began pulling his sword out of the scabbard, Varkan and some other warriors leaned forward to him, begging him to stop, pointing to the mass of frenzied people. The misshapen Scythian was observing all this with a detached curiosity as though he were watching a play.

“There’s nothing left for us to do but defend ourselves,” Dmitro Borisovich cried out in desperation, swinging his pickaxe at the approaching Scythians. But in a moment dozens of hands wrenched the pickaxes from them and took hold of the explorers themselves. Artem was heaved into the very thick of the crowd. Then he acted from desperation: there was only one recourse left him.

“Diana! Come here! Quick!” he cried out, wriggling like an eel in the hands of the strong Scythians who were holding him.

The big, tawny body of the dog zoomed through the air in the dusk. Growling fiercely, the dog leaped over the heads of the Scythians. Landing with all her weight on the two men standing closest to Artem, she knocked them to the ground. The next moment she had sunk her sharp teeth into the hand of the Scythian who was holding Artem. From all sides came the frightened cries:

“Poskina!… Poskina,!… Poskina!…”

Diana was running in circles around Artem, baring her fangs, and darting at this or that Scythian. Some free space was cleared around Artem, who became the center of a magic circle into which the Scythians were loath to step for fear of the terrible creature, the poskina, that darted back and forth intrepidly within it. Diana struck such fear into the Scythians that none of them thought of using arms against her. The one who had been bitten ran away, and the rest began retreating little by little, close to panic. The soothsayer had apparently overlooked the fact that the Scythians feared poskina more than the thunder and lightning.

“Aha, that’s good,” Artem said contentedly, “that’s good. Now, let’s move over to the rest of our company. Diana, my dear poskina, let’s go!”

The dog was all too eager to rush to the rescue of the others. A shrewd and intrepid fighter, the dog either bared her fangs to scare somebody away or leaped forward, scattering those who tried to block their passage, or dashed back to check for a possible attack from behind, or stayed at Artem’s side to let him keep pace with her. None of the Scythians so much as tried to do anything to put the dog out of action, overwhelmed as they were with fear and awe. Some of the Scythians thought it wise to be as far as possible from the dread beast, and they retreated hurriedly.

“Diana!” Lida called in her ringing, cheerful voice.

“Here we are, Lida,” Artem called back.

All four explorers were again reunited, four surrounded unarmed people, facing a continuous human wall of infuriated Scythians armed with bows, spears and swords. The explorers had only a dog to defend them, and yet the Scythians did not attack. But if they were afraid to come close to the beast, why didn’t they shoot the strangers and their dog with their arrows? It could be done so easily!

This thought was on the minds of the four explorers. Then Dmitro Borisovich spoke, as though in response to the general anxiety:

“The old soothsayer seems to have ordered them to capture us alive…”

Ivan Semenovich nodded his head in agreement. And then he took a decision that had been unwittingly suggested by the archeologist.

“We must surrender, no more resistance,” he said in a voice of authority that precluded any arguments. “The soothsayer could easily change his mind and command the Scythians to use their spears and arrows. In that case, Diana won’t be of any help to us.”

“You mean we should give ourselves up?”

“Cool down, Artem. I know what I’m talking about. I’m quite sure the old soothsayer does not intend to kill us now. He has some other plans for us at the moment. Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here quietly, discussing all this. Do you agree?”

Artem did not argue: Ivan Semenovich was right.

“So, we must use this opportune moment while he is in his present frame of mind. We’ll wait and see what happens next. No resistance now! That especially goes for you, Artem, though you, Dmitro Borisovich, must keep it in mind, too. Now, be quiet and stand still!”

Another clap of thunder was heard, but this time it was much less powerful than the previous one. The Scythians were standing around the explorers in a tight circle, neither retreating nor approaching. Diana kept turning her head, looking around, ready to spring at her enemies.

“All right, if we surrender now,” Lida said in a low voice, “what’ll happen to us afterwards?”

As though in reply to her question, the soothsayer’s voice could be heard again, a voice that could be recognized among hundreds of other voices, hoarse and imperative. But the soothsayer was not to be seen behind the circle of the Scythian warriors.

“I remind you — stand still now,” Ivan Semenovich said emphatically.

The Scythians on one side of the circle stepped forward, holding their spears in front of them. Diana rushed at them, but the spears stopped her. The Scythians advanced, the sharp points of some spears were already touching the explorers. Diana made short jumps in all directions, but everywhere she was stopped by the spears. It was easy to see now that as the spears on one side were steadily advancing toward the explorers, while on the opposite side they were retreating, making way for the explorers to pass.

The intention of the Scythians — or rather that of the soothsayer who issued the commands — was all too apparent. They were maneuvering to make the explorers move in the desired direction.

“We must do what they want us to,” the geologist said. “Let’s go.”

As they began moving, the circle of the Scythians around them expanded, and the spears stopped prodding them, since the Scythians had realized that the strangers would not try to resist. Diana also obeyed the geologist’s commands, all the more so since the explorers were trotting quietly along, and their apparent calm meant there was no immediate danger. The dog was now walking peacefully by their side. If not for the circle of silent, hostile men all around holding spears and other weapons in combat readiness, the explorers might have been walking in a procession reminiscent of the one earlier in the day when they followed Skolot to his tent.

“How come Skolot gave in so easily to the soothsayer’s demands?” Artem suddenly spat out angrily. “Didn’t he say just a while ago that we were under his protection? This is downright treachery!”

“What else was there for him to do?” Lida replied. “You saw for yourself how the old bastard had incited the crowd. You saw what fear he had put into them, didn’t you?”

“All the same, Skolot should have defended us to the end,” Artem insisted stubbornly.

“Nothing would have come of it. It would only have resulted in bloodshed, and in the end the soothsayer would have us captured anyway,” the girl said. “Didn’t you see that even Varkan was begging Skolot not to interfere?”

“Ah. you and your Varkan!…” Artem said contemptuously. Now the young man regarded

“You shouldn’t, really, speak like that,” Lida said heatedly. “Varkan seems to be very sympathetic to us.”

“Is he really?” Artem said, his lips twisted ironically.

“Stop grumbling, Artem. You’re just peeved. And Lida is right on every point,” Ivan Semenovich broke in. The young man fell silent discontentedly: what could he say more if everybody was against him? Lida was right as far as Varkan was concerned; Varkan did seem to be a very likeable person, but all the same, why should she be speaking so ardently in his favor?

“There’s one thing that still remains unclear to me,” Lida said, as if picking up the thread of the conversation.

“Ugh, just one thing?” Artem snapped. “Everything else she’s understood, so it’s all clear to her!”

“Hold your tongue, Artem!” Ivan Semenovich said angrily. Lida continued as though she had not heard Artern’s acrimonious remark:

“What role does the misshapen Scythian play in all these goings on? That’s what I’d like to know.”

Naturally, no one could provide her with an answer, and the conversation ceased.

They were moving along the same road they had taken on their way to the chieftain’s tent. It was a passage between two rows of wagons and kibitkas. The soothsayer, already on horseback, trotted past the explorers, leaving the crowd behind. He looked down at the explorers from his horse; it was not a comforting glance, for it was filled with cold fierceness. To thi^ik only that they were at the mercy of this cruel and unscrupulous person!

Further in the distance, beyond the crowd, on the knoll, the explorers saw a group of people. They were probably the captives whom the explorers had seen earlier in the day. It was difficult to say for sure, though, as they were far away.

Artem again turned his gaze to the precipitous cliffs that were rising high on the far side of the field beyond the forest and the hillocks. The whole place seemed surrounded on all sides by mountains which reached high up to the clouds and beyond. The surroundings resembled an enormous mountain valley, especially now in the dusk, when the unnatural yellowish-pink of the plants had changed to a uniform black.

Mountains, mountains everywhere. But are they really mountains, in the proper sense of the word? They’re probably not mountains but the walls of a gigantic cave… a cave where ancient Scythians lived… But how had they found their way here?… And how and why had they managed to survive to modern times? Hm, if it is a cave, does that mean there is a ceiling somewhere up there, above the fields, the woods, the wagons… rocks straight ahead, hidden beyond the clouds? Very, very strange, incredible, impossible!

Meanwhile the procession reached the kibitkas, adorned with grotesque pictures crudely drawn on the felt of the tents, among which one could make out figures of panthers — poskinas — lions, and deer.

“These pictures must have some religious or ritual significance,” remarked the archeologist who had almost completely regained his composure. No signs of his recent agitation were noticeable.

The procession stopped. The soothsayer was standing in front of a big kibitka. Now, on top of his long dress, he was wearing a long cloak also adorned with grotesque pictures of animals and birds. The soothsayer was now full of dignity, as if he were waiting for distinguished guests.

“The old trickster’s putting on this show to let us see what a big wheel he is,” Artem muttered. “If I could, I’d beat the hell out of…”

“Keep quiet!” Ivan Semenovich said sharply. “Don’t forget we’re in his hands. I’ve already told you to keep quiet, haven’t I?”

The soothsayer pronounced a short incantation, pointing alternately to the kibitka and the captive strangers. Those Scythians who were standing closer, immediately stepped back as though the strangers and their horrible poskina had become doubly dangerous to touch. Another wave of renewed fear passed over their faces. The soothsayer certainly did possess the power to intimidate these people.

After the old man was through with his incantations, he stepped aside, and the robust priestesses, daggers in hand, points forward, came up to the captives and indicated the entrance to the kibitka with their weapons.

“I think we must go in there,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “You don’t need any interpretation here. Right, Ivan Semenovich?”

“We don’t have much of an option,” replied the geologist.

He was the first to enter the tent, drawing the piece of felt that served as the door, aside. Lida was the last to go in. She was very tired by now, and what she wanted most of all was a chance to rest.

As she was going in, she thought it would be a good idea to draw the piece of felt carefully across the entrance, completely closing it and indicating to the Scythians that the strangers were not to be disturbed. When she turned around, taking hold of the edge of the felt, she unwittingly looked through the opening, and what she saw made her stop, rooted to the spot. Forgetting all about her tiredness, she watched.

She saw the misshapen Scythian, who had evidently come with the crowd, talking to the old soothsayer, gesticulating excitedly, and glancing every so often at the kibitka. Without understanding a word, Lida realized that the younger man wanted the soothsayer to give him something that was in the kibitka. But the soothsayer kept doggedly shaking his head, apparently saying no. The younger man insisted.

Watching them talk made Lida’s heart race wildly for some reason or other. She could not guess what it was that the ugly Scythian wanted, but she sensed it was something extremely significant, something that might concern them all. But what? Why was she so unnerved by it?

The soothsayer was now listening to the stoop-shouldered man with growing attention, and then Lida saw him nod his head curtly. The younger man’s face twisted into a contented smile. She shifted her gaze to the soothsayer, checking whether he had in fact given his consent. The soothsayer nodded his head in an unmistakable gesture of assent.

The misshapen Scythian cast a quick glance at the kibitka. His whole face shone with satisfaction. His eyes seemed to have located Lida in the kibitka and were resting on her… His gaze made her shudder and start back so violently that she almost lost her balance.

“Lida, what’s keeping you?” she heard the voice of Ivan Semenovich. “Come here. There’s something new and interesting for all of us.”

Lida turned around, and as she walked over to join the rest, she stopped dead, overcome with surprise. She saw something that she never expected to see.

Her friends, sitting on a rug, were talking to none other than Varkan who had somehow made his way into the kibitka. The Scythian was lying in the far corner of the kibitka, covered with a piece of cloth, only his helmeted head showing.

“Varkan!” Lida exclaimed in astonishment, opening her eyes wide. The next moment she flushed as she saw the young Scythian, hearing her utter his name, smile amicably at her.

CHAPTER THREE

The explorers are informed that they are the property of the gods the Scythian food is eaten and complicated problems involving Skolot and Dorbatay are discussed; the archeologist goes into one of his impromptu discourses on history and Dorbatay puts forward his conditions; more is learned about Hartak, the misshapen Scythian, and Ivan Semenovich expands his ideas.

“Don’t just stand there like that, Lida. Come over here. You’re not afraid of our friend Varkan, are you?” Ivan Semenovich said, laughing.

“Of course not! But how… how did he get in here?” Lida asked, still in the grip of the initial fright.

“That’s what Dmitro Borisovich is going to explain to us, as he remains the only person who can communicate with Varkan. Dmitro Borisovich! We’re waiting for you to start!”

In the semi-darkness of the kibitka, into which the twilight could penetrate only through the opening at its top, the conversation began, with Dmitro Borisovich acting as the interpreter. Artem was dispatched to stand guard at the entrance. He was to signal should anyone approach. That was the first thing Varkan wanted the explorers to do. Varkan was lying on llie floor, almost completely covered with a piece of felt; if the alarm were given, he could pull the felt over his head in his dark corner, and thus remain unnoticed by anyone who entered.

Varkan was telling his story in a low voice but speaking very fast. Dmitro Borisovich had to interrupt him once in a while, asking him to repeat or explain something that he had missed or failed to understand. Every two or three minutes, he stopped Varkan to translate what had been said. Impatient to render Varkan’s words as quickly as possible, he made short cuts, dropping words and sounds, gesticulating with his agile hands to help himself and others get his meaning.

“Skolot, you see, could do nothing in that situation,” Dmitro Borisovich translated. “The soothsayer — as we ourselves correctly guessed — managed to use the approaching thunderstorm to his own ends, threatening the Scythians with the wrath of the gods who would hurl rocks down from the sky if… well, in fact, rocks do happen to fall from the sky here…”

“That is quite an understandable phenomenon given the local conditions,” remarked the geologist.

“Terrified, the Scythians followed the soothsayer and demanded that we be handed over to them. The soothsayer’s case was immensely strengthened by the thunderbolts… Skolot was obliged to give in to the demand as he was afraid that any further resistance would lead to the fighting between his warriors and the soothsayer’s henchmen. So, now we’re in the hands of the soothsayer who has put a magic spell on us so that no one, except for him and his priestesses, can approach us… A sort of taboo. Now we’re the property of the gods, so to speak… And since the soothsayer has developed a strong dislike for us, we, as Varkan tells me, are in danger of being… errr… sacrificed to appease these gods…”

“I protest!” Artem called indignantly from his post at the entrance. “That must not be allowed to happen!”

“I hold the same view, but it’s a good thing we’ve been forewarned. Varkan says that the old soothsayer is an extremely wily and treacherous person. But this also makes it likely that he will want to use us for his own ends. The Scythians, you see, take us for some kind of wizards or sorcerers. Especially Artem…”

“Rrrright, Fm a very powerful magician!’’ the young man said in a voice affecting imperious dignity.

“Yes, Yarkan says that you, Artem, have produced a very strong impression on the Scythians. Diana, our dear poskina, has also wrought havoc… To make it short and sweet, Varkan says that the confrontation has only just begun. The main thing is to let the Scythians calm down a little, then it’ll be easier to deal with them. Now they’re too excited… Ah, there’s one thing we’ve got to ask Varkan about!”

Dmitro Borisovich began speaking to Varkan, choosing his words painstakingly. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he had gained somewhat in fluency. Varkan listened to him, his head bent attentively.

“Dmitro Borisovich, ask him who that stoop-shouldered Scythian is. He’s been making eyes at Lida all the time,” Arlem requested from his post at the entrance.

“All righ, I will.”

After the archeologist had worded his questions, Varkan started explaining, and, evidently, it was a rather complicated story, since Dmitro Borisovich had to interrupt him more often than before, asking him to repeat this or that phrase.

Suddenly, Artem coughed loudly, signaling a warning to his friends. Varkan immediately disappeared under the felt, and Ivan Semenovich even reclined on it, pretending to be resting.

Two Scythians, daggers hanging from their belts, entered the kibitka. They carried in two large wooden plates with big hunks of boiled meat on them. On top of the meat was some bread. A third Scythian came in carrying an earthen jug. They put the food on the floor silently, some distance away from the captives, and then left without uttering a word.

As soon as they had gone out, Varkan flipped the felt off his head. He said something that disturbed Dmitro Borisovich. The archeologist shook his head as though not quite believing what he had heard, adjusted his eyeglasses in an abrupt gesture, and said:

“The thing is, my friends… Artem! Varkan asks you not to neglect your duties at the entrance! So, as I was saying, the thing is that according to Varkan, the misshapen Scythian you wanted to know about is Skolot’s son!”

“You don’t say!” everybody exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yes, that’s right, Skolot’s son. And his name is Hartak.,He was a sickly child, born a cripple. His disabilities prevented him from becoming a warrior like all the other Scythians of high rank; neither could he be an adequate hunter. It’s probably this disability that has turned him into such a wicked man, since he was envious of anyone who was physically fit and could distinguish himself in all those things from which Hartak was barred. Now he’s anxious lest, after Skolot’s death, he should fail to succeed his father as the chieftain, because of his physical deformity. The fact is that the Scythians are accustomed to having chieftains who exhibit great valor, intrepidity and physical strength. Besides, Skolot himself is not very fond of Hartak, mostly because his son associates with Dorbatay the soothsayer.”

“A very likable pair they are indeed!” Artem remarked ironically.

“The relations between Skolot and Dorbatay have also been going from bad to worse for quite some time now. In fact, they are half-brothers by their father. Skolot, as the elder son of the former chieftain, inherited the chieftaincy by right of primogeniture. Dorbatay has never been able to reconcile himself to this fact. Ivan Semenovich, do you remember that when we were drinking the oksugala, I suggested that Dorbatay might have been effeminate in his youth? In point of fact, he was a handsome man.”

“That disgusting old creature?” Artem said indignantly.

“Well, senescence does not exactly improve one’s looks,” the archeologist said with a bitter smile. “Dorbatay was really a handsome man as Varkan tells me, and we can surmise that his beauty was somewhat effeminate. His androgynous looks could have been the reason he entered the priesthood. It is extremely likely that in this way, he hoped to put himself into a position of solid opposition to the hereditary chieftain Skolot… It seems he has managed to do that, though such an opposition is unnatural, judging from what we know about the ancient Scythians from the available sources.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s rather a complicated story and I don’t think it’s the right time to go into the details, but briefly, it’s like this. With the Scythians, whose social relations were not as advanced as, say, in Egypt, for a state to emerge, the power wielded by the chieftain was always stronger than that of the priests. The Scythian chieftains tried to use the rather primitive religious beliefs that existed among their people for their own ends. But in our case, Dorbatay seems to have proved craftier than Skolot. He has managed to get all the priestesses under his thumb. At first, he was just an ordinary priest. The only two things that distinguished him from others were his being an androgynous male and the brother of Skolot. Then he maneuvered until he finally became the high priest, the soothsayer, thus achieving complete authority over the priestesses. Wily and unscrupulous as he is, he has gained considerable control over the gullible Scythians.”

“We’ve already had a chance to see how easily they can be swayed!”

“Without Skolot’s knowledge, he’s surrounded himself with henchmen chosen from among the tall, strong androgynous-looking young men. Besides, he has some backing among the warriors, too. Now, a great enmity has developed between the two groupings — Skolot’s and Dorbatay’s. Most important — in the present situation — is the fact that the rich and the nobles have joined in the struggle — and now they are vying for power, too. That’s what I’ve understood from Varkan’s explanations. We have been seized by Dorbatay’s faction with the support of the Scythian poor who are mortally afraid of thunderstorms. I think that thunderstorms and lightning in a cave like this — if it is a cave — can be disastrous. We’re the victims of religious tenets manipulated by the crafty Dorbatay and his supporters to suit their ends…”

“Hm… it does sound very complicated,” Ivan Semenovich said pensively.

“Why did Skolot treat us better then, even trying to defend us against Dorbatay?” asked Lida, quite nonplussed by what she had heard; in her imagination, Skolot had already acquired the status of a friendly, likable person, who was in stiff opposition to the perfidious, malevolent soothsayer.

Dmitro Borisovich shrugged his shoulders:

“I suspect that Skolot would like to use us for his ends exactly the way Dorbatay wants to. But at the very start, when we first made our appearance here, we found ourselves in opposition to Dorbatay, thanks to Artem’s fervent defense of the captives. It’s understandable that our magnanimous gesture played into Skolot’s hands and the chieftain thought it would be advantageous to have us on his side. Dorbatay was also quick to realize that we could be an asset in his plans and moved to seize us… and he’s succeeded as you can well see.”

“So,” Artem said, “we’re tools to be used in the interests of this or that faction, right? But what if I categorically refuse to be reduced to the role of a tool and will never accept this role, what then?”

“Not only you, Artem, but none of us here would wish to accept it,” Ivan Semenovich replied instead of the archeologist. “Unfortunately, wishing is not enough in our present circumstances. We can’t do much as long as we are held here like this. So, the first thing we must do, it’s to free ourselves. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And to achieve this, we must use every means at our disposal. Dmitro Borisovich, there’s one thing which is not quite clear to me. What is the role of Varkan in all this? We must adopt a general line of behavior, be it as captives or free people. It does not become us to stand passively waiting to see which faction — Dorbatay’s or Skolot’s — gets the upper hand in their attempts to use us to strengthen their power.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Ivan Semenovich,” Artem chimed in.

“As far as Varkan is concerned, he says he is here on orders from Skolot and on his own initiative, too,” said the archeologist after talking again to the young Scythian.

“Oh, on his own initiative too? What does that mean? Does he represent another faction fighting for power?” Ivan Semenovich asked.

“Again, it’s a rather complicated story,” Dmitro Borisovich replied, pulling his beard pensively. “You see, Skolot’s power and support lie with his warriors; similarly, those of Dorbatay lie in his numerous priesthood. But there are all sorts of people among Skolot’s supporters, including quite a few highborn young men. But there are also those who have only their personal valor to distinguish them. Skolot wants such stalwarts among his supporters, and that’s why he willingly enlists fearless young men — mostly skilled hunters — into his force, even if they are not so wellborn. Varkan is one of them. The fact that Dorbatay keeps the Scythians down…”

“Do you want to imply that Skolot, on the contrary, is against oppressing the Scythians and wants to free them from Dorbatay’s yoke?” Ivan Semenovich interrupted the archeologist, his voice full of irony. “That would be the first recorded instance in the history of mankind when a plutocrat goes out of his way to make those he oppresses happy, wiping, so to say, their tears, with his own hands.” The remark annoyed Dmitro Borisovich and when he replied, it was evident that he had taken offense:

“I wish you’d hear me out before you go jumping to unfounded conclusions. Besides, if we continue to indulge in arguments of this sort, I’ll never be able to tell you what I’ve barely understood myself.”

“I’m sorry, Dmitro Borisovich. Pray, go ahead!”

“Well, as I was saying, we’ve got quite a complicated situation here. Varkan told me that the two ruling factions have clashed more than once in the past. There are other factors that complicate the picture even further. For example: we saw a big group of captives driven back here from somewhere by the warriors. In fact, they were runaway slaves who revolted against their oppressors. The rebellion was put down, and some of the rebels ran away. Skolot’s warriors found them and brought them back. We witnessed their return.”

“Yes,” said Ivan Semenovich thoughtfully. “It is a complicated situation indeed… Incidentally, who is that blackhaired beardless man who was reassuring the captives? Do you remember, Dmitro Borisovich, the one whose words you could make out?”

“Of course I remember him! I’ll ask Varkan now.”

The archeologist spoke to Varkan, and the young Scythian smiled when he heard the question. It took him quite some time to answer. Ivan Semenovich, without being able to understand anything, caught one word that attracted his attention.

“Wait, wait a second,” he said, interrupting Varkan. “Dmitro Borisovich, it seems I heard a familiar name. What was it that Varkan just said? It was something like ‘Ronis.’ It has familiar ring, as though I’ve heard it before.”

“Yes, it’s a person’s name. As a matter of fact, the name of the man you asked about. And what Varkan is telling me is extremely interesting.”

“Go ahead, tell us!”

“In point of fact, Varkan’s story is known to me as an archeologist, in rough outline, without his having to tell me. Don’t look so puzzled, I’ll explain now. It concerns the relations of the numerous Scythian tribes with the Greek colonists who settled along the shores of the Black Sea and founded their fortified towns, like Olvia and others. You’ve heard about Olvia, haven’t you? I once told you about it. Well, getting back to the present story, the Greeks first acted as peaceable merchants, but as their settlements grew in number and size they began to put pressure on the local population. The wily, shrewd Greek merchants pushed further and further north, spreading their trade monopoly over some of the Scythian tribes, especially those who had already settled down and engaged in agriculture. The grain grown by the Scythians was exported in large quantities to Greece. Little by little, the Greek merchants made themselves virtual masters over the vast Scythian territories. They began introducing slavery, turning the free Scythians into slaves.”

“Weren’t they real aggressors and plunderers? Not only did they seize the Scythian lands, but they also made the Scythians into slaves!” the passionate Artem could not help crying out in indignation.

“To a certain extent they were, though the terms you have used are hardly applicable to them,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “Those Scythians who resented being subjugated by the Greeks migrated further north, fighting rear guard actions. These were mostly nomadic Scythians. The outcome of the clashes was often undecided, but in most cases, the Greeks, who were better armed and more disciplined, defeated the Scythians, took many of them prisoner, and made them into slaves. On the other hand, the Scythians, for their part, regularly raided the Greek colonies. Varkan said that his tribe raided even Olvia, though that was a long time ago! In most cases, the raids met with little success, because the Greek towns were well-fortified with high walls and ramparts which the raiding Scythians could not breach or take by storm. Many Scythians died in the fighting, and quite a lot were taken captive to be sold as slaves in Olvia and other Greek colonies. But on rare occasions, the Scythians managed to capture some Greeks, and they became slaves of the Scythians.”

“Right! Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!” said Artem, who was listening to the archeologist with unflagging attention.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “But the Scythians never sold their slaves; they kept them for them selves. Besides, very few Greeks were captured by the Scythians since, as I’ve already mentioned, the Greeks were almost invariably on the winning side. Varkan says that this was what happened to his own tribe more than once. But once, a very long time ago, his tribe succeeded in capturing quite a few Greeks. They stayed with the tribe, their status hardly different from that of slaves. It happened such a long time ago that the memory of these events remained only in legends passed down from one generation to another. I must tell you that there’s nothing in this story that would contradict history as we know it… But I’ve just recounted what Varkan’s been telling me, and now comes something that no history books could contain…”

“Oh, go ahead, Dmitro Borisovich, go ahead! It’s both important and interesting,” Ivan Semenovich urged the archeologist, noticing that he was sinking deep into his own reflections.

“So, Varkan tells me that his tribe has lost contacts with the Greek colonists for unknown reasons. His tribe has never come across them since those ancient times, and has never engaged in more fighting with them.”

“That is quite understandable if we remember where this trine lives now,” the geologist said. “Does he know why there’s no contacts? Have the Scythians tried to figure out the reasons?”

“Apparently they have not. Now, back to our story. The Scythians never saw any more of the Greeks, and the Greek slaves remained with the tribe. Many of them married into the Scythian families, picking up some of their customs and habits, and, naturally, passing some of their own on to the Scythians. Mutual historical influence, so to say, exchange of ideas,” added Dmitro Borisovich with a smile. “But the descendants of those captured Greeks preserved their language to a large extent and some elements of their dress. The relations between the Scythians and the Greeks grew rather friendly. Or rather they were friendly, until Dorbatay came on the scene.”

“Again that old scoundrel!” Artem cried out.

“Yes, Dorbatay caused the truce to be broken. As I’ve already told you, he went to great lengths in his attempts to establish his influence over the Scythians. Now, when the appropriate moment presented itself, he, using some religious motives, managed to sow hatred for the Greeks among the Scythians. Of course, Dorbatay was not alone in stirring up trouble — he was supported by some Scythian elders and the rich who put pressure on the rest of the tribe. Skolot evidently did not oppose the soothsayer in this matter. The rest of the Scythians fell into the trap very easily, as it is very simple to set one group of people against another by playing on their religious prejudices. It goes without saying that the majority of the Scythians do not profit by the discord in any way, but they fear their gods and do whatever Dorbatay tells them to appease those deities. The soothsayer keeps reminding the Scythians that the Greeks have been forsaken by their gods and stirs them up against the Greeks. Very shrewd, isn’t it?”

“There’s likable Skolot for you!” Artem cried out in a fit of indignation. “He’s likable only in appearance, but inside he’s as rotten as Dorbatay!”

“Ah, did you expect him to be a friend of the slaves or what?” Ivan Semenovich smiled sardonically. “Don’t forget he is Dorbatay’s brother… and it’s not their parents that matters but their social status; that is by far the most important factor.”

“But why do the slaves put up with the situation?” Artem said, still hotly. “If I were in their place…”

“They don’t put up with it, my young friend,” Dmitro Borisovich protested. “I told you already that they revolted recently, but you saw what came of it! You saw the captured slaves…”

“It’s still not clear to me why the majority of the Scythians can be so easily manipulated by Dorbatay. Why wouldn’t they side with the slaves? You said yourself that they did not profit from abusing the Greeks. Besides, they have their common enemies in Dorbatay, Skolot and the rich! I’d spell it all out to them nice and clear all right! Ask Varkan what he thinks about all that!” the young man continued pressing the subject.

The archeologist translated Artem’s guestion to Varkan. The Scythian stared at the young man and knit his brows as though pondering the question intently. Then, after a short pause, he replied, looking Artem straight in the eye. Dmitro Borisovich translated:

“Varkan says that you, Artem, have much to learn here. Maybe sometime in the future Varkan will be able to answer your question, but not now. But he wants you to know that he has many friends among the Greeks, Ronis, for example, the man Ivan Semenovich asked about. He’s one of Varkan’s closest friends. From this fact, Varkan asks you to draw certain conclusions. How things will develop you’ll see for yourself…”

Now it was Artern’s turn to think the answer over, as it was brief and seemingly ambiguous, but evidently there was a lot of meaning hidden in it. The Scythian apparently did not think it wise to give a more explicit answer. But even what he had said was revealing. Here was Varkan, a warrior of Skolot’s, enjoying the trust of the chieftain — Artem had noticed that much! At the same time, he was on friendly terms with the Greeks in spite of possible disgrace if it became known… Very, very interesting…

Nothing more was said for some time: there was quite a lot to ponder.

Artem walked over to the plates of food: it was high time to attend to it, not as an archeological necessity, as Dmitro Borisovich might regard it, but simply to get a decent meal at last. The meat smelled very appetizingly, and the bread also looked quite good; the earthen jug held aromatic fresh milk.

Artem sat down to have his meal close to the entrance, not forgetting of his duties as a guard. He fell to eating with such gusto that the rest couldn’t help doing the same. In a minute everybody was heartily partaking of the food. Varkan watched the strangers with a benevolent smile. He refused to have anything to eat when Dmitro Borisovich asked him to join them.

Only after the explorers had finished the meat and bread and begun drinking the milk did Varkan begin to speak again, Dmitro Borisovich listening again with a concentrated attention.

“My friends,” the archeologist said after a while, “Varkan says that we are not in immediate danger, at least until morning. Dorbatay’s planning a major ceremony for tomorrow, but Skolot intends to buy you from him.. He has a good chance of succeeding, since Dorbatay is greedy. Varkan thinks that Skolot is prepared to give him some jewels in exchange for your release.”

“Oh, are we just goods to be bought and sold?” Lida flared up in anger. “And isn’t Skolot — at least judging by what you said — just another version of Dorbatay? The soothsayer is very hostile to us, and the chieftain is not, but aren’t they basically the same? In the words of Artem — don’t they make a pair?”

“Lida, don’t let your emotions get the best of you,” Ivan Semenovich said. “We must think hard and decide what to do without letting emotional outbursts interfere with our reasoning. There are some things that demand our close attention. For example, Varkan mentioned his relations with… what’s his name… Ah, Ronis, isn’t it? I think I’m on the right track in figuring out what’s what…”

“So am I,” Artem put in, looking triumphantly at Lida.

“That’s good,” the geologist said. “I’m happy we share the same opinion on the matter. So, I think we should put our stakes on Skolot, or rather not even him but on…”

The geologist did not pronounce the name but looked at Varkan quite significantly. But Varkan, who did not understand a word of what was being said, was patiently waiting for the interpretation. Suddenly he shuddered with fear, his gaze riveted on Diana. She got to her feet and walked over to Ivan Semenovich, sniffing the air.

“Oh, it’s too bad we forgot about the dog! We’ve had our dinner, but what about poor Diana?” said the geologist reproachfully. He took what was left of the meat and gave it to the dog. Varkan watched the dog eat silently but suspiciously. Then he addressed himself to Dmitro Borisovich, pointing to Diana. His question made the archeologist laugh.

“No, my friend, no!” he said to Varkan in Greek. “It’s an ordinary dog, and a very good dog indeed, pure bred, devoted, even intelligent — but just a dog. There’s nothing magical or extraordinary about her, I can assure you!” Then he turned to his friends. “What a great sway superstition can have over people! Even such a bright man as Varkan cannot suppress his fear of Diana. He asked whether we’re afraid she might eat us one day. He regards our Diana as an incarnation of the sacred panther!”

It did sound preposterous, but the conversation was brought to a sudden halt, for Artem heard footfalls approaching the kibitka; he sprang to his feet and shushed them.

Varkan’s head disappeared under the felt; Diana began growling menacingly.

“Diana, down! Down!” Ivan Semenovich commanded sternly. The dog lowered herself to the ground reluctantly, still making a low growling sound.

A hand threw a flap at the entrance aside; a twinkling light was seen outside. A Scythian holding an oil lamp came in and stopped at the entrance. He was followed by the old soothsayer wearing his ceremonial scarlet cloak and felt hat with sundry gold decorations glistening in the wavering light of the oil lamp. He looked around sharply, his face grim and forbidding. The gold decorations were of many sizes with various images carved into them. Similar decorations adorned the soothsayer’s felt hat, long strands of gray hair stuck from under it.

“I wonder what it is he wants from us now?” Artem asked in a low voice, not really expecting an answer. None of them could provide it; they all waited guardedly for what would follow next.

The soothsayer assumed a dignified, self-assured posture. He made an almost imperceptible gesture, and a short swarthy man immediately rushed in. He bowed very low before the soothsayer and stood beside him, casting glances at the explorers, his curiosity evidently piqued by their strange appearance.

The soothsayer began speaking without turning his head to the swarthy man, ignoring his presence altogether. The words fell from his lips one by one, very distinctly, in measured intervals but completely lacking in emotional coloring. He seemed to be speaking about matters totally unrelated to the captives. When he paused, the swarthy man began translating. Evidently, he had been called in specifically for this purpose — to interpret the soothsayer’s pronouncements into Greek. But how had the soothsayer learned that one of the captives could communicate in Greek?

The swarthy man translated and Dmitro Borisovich, in his turn, translated what had been said for his friends. Both the interpreters were careful in choosing their words so as to render the soothsayer’s address as adequately as possible:

“The glorious Dorbatay, beloved-of-the-gods, does not harbor any ill feelings towards the strangers. Dorbatay understood they had been sent by the gods the moment they emerged from the forest accompanied by their yellow panther. It is known that no ordinary mortal can be accompanied by a panther — this beast of evil and terror incarnate.”

“That is you, my dear Diana, he’s speaking about,” Artem whispered into the dog’s ear, but in reply, the dog only moved her ear slightly.

“The glorious Dorbatay had another proof of the strangers’ unearthly abilities,” the translation continued, “when he saw smoke coming from the mouth and nose of the young magician. This is a feat beyond the powers of ordinary mortals…”

“Aha, now, he’s talking about me…”

“Artem, stop it,” Ivan Semenovich said sharply.

“Yes, sir,” Artem replied submissively.

The soothsayer did not seem to hear any of this exchange or just ignored it. The moment the swarthy interpreter and Dmitro Borisovich had been done with their translations, he began speaking again:

“The glorious Dorbatay,” he said in translation, “does not want any quarrels with the strangers; he’s loath to do them any harm. He wants to give them worthy tasks to perform. He wants them to become his friends, in which case no one would dare to trouble them. Dorbatay himself will see to it that they have everything they please. They’ll have the best cattle, the best horses, the best food, the best kibitkas, and as many slaves as they want. To have all this, they only must do as the glorious Dorbatay instructs them to do.”

“But what is that he wants us to do? Let’s hear it,” Ivan Semenovich said distrustfully.

“If the strangers promise Dorbatay to abide by his will, nobody will touch a hair of their heads. They’ll be made rich and powerful, and Dorbatay will give them everything they would like to have because Dorbatay is omnipotent.”

The swarthy translator was so impressed by such a fantastic proposition that his eyes shone with greed.

“All right, and what is it precisely that the glorious Dorbatay wants us to do?” Dmitro Borisovich asked.

Now the soothsayer showed that he deigned to hear: the moment the archeologist mentioned his name he shot a glance at him and a ghost of a smile appeared on his face. A moment later he resumed his quiet and haughty attitude and said:

“Dorbatay puts forward the following conditions: the strangers shall abstain from performing any miracles without his express approval. They shall assist him in performing miracles during the rituals. As far as the woman is concerned…”

“What does hu have in mind?” Artem said, his suspicion immediately aroused.

“The woman, who has had the good fortune to be fancied by Hartak, son of the great chieftain, shall receive even a greater reward: she’ll have the honor of becoming his fourth beloved wife…”

“What?”

“His wife?”

“The fourth wife?”

“Who — me?”

This outcry of indignation came from all the four explorers immediately and simultaneously. Did he really mean it? Lida to become the fourth wife of the deformed Hartak? To be given the honor of becoming his wife?!

“Somebody has gone nuts! And it’s either us or them!” Artem cried out in a temper. “But I’m inclined to think it’s Dorbatay who’s out of his head. Tell him that it’s the custom with us to ask the girl first whether she wishes to marry someone, and only if she does not reject the proposal do any further discussions take place! Go ahead, tell him that!”

“He and his Hartak can go to hell!” Lida burst out in indignation.

“Right!” Artem supported Lida. “Let Hartak come here himself. Why is he hiding behind the backs of others? Then, when he makes his appearance, I’ll give it him hot! You old bastard, bring your Hartak in here, and I’ll teach him what’s what!”

Artem, burning with anger, was about to rush at Dorbatay with clenched fists when Ivan Semenovich’s stern warning stopped him. But the young man could not help adding: “I’m sure your Hartak is hanging around somewhere close. Tell him to watch his step. I’m short-tempered as they come! You hear that? Oh, and who’s that?”

The felt hanging at the entrance was pushed aside and a figure stepped into the semi-darkness of the kibitka. The soothsayer turned around quickly to look back. Lida guessed rather than actually saw the misshapen form of Hartak. “It’s Hartak! He’s been eavesdropping!”

“So much the better,” Ivan Semenovich remarked calmly. “He has probably realized by now without any further explanations that we reject both his and Dorbatay’s proposals. Now, Dmitro Borisovich, tell them this: we absolutely refuse to accept their proposals. We will not do what Dorbatay wants us to do. We do not want to assist him in duping people. That’s all we have to tell him. Am I right, my friends?”

“Of course!”

“That’s the only answer we could give him!”

Dorbatay listened attentively to what was being translated for him by the short swarthy man who accompanied his interpretation with many deferential bows. His withered face remained impassive, as if there was nothing unexpected or displeasing to him in the answer given by the strangers. But when he began speaking again after the translator had finished, notes of dissatisfaction could be discerned in his voice.

“The old man seems to be greatly displeased,” Artem voiced his observations. Lida irritably shrugged her shoulders, her meaning all too clear: I could not care less.

“The glorious Dorbatay has something else to say,” the swarthy man went on. “The glorious Dorbatay wishes to inform the strangers that if they refuse to accept his proposals, they will be sacrificed tomorrow morning. So they must choose: either they receive honors and wealth from the hands of Dorbatay or death tomorrow morning.”

“Dmitro Borisovich, tell them that we are not to be intimidated by his threats,” said Ivan Semenovich firmly. “There’s nothing more to discuss. We’ll wait and see how he will go about fulfilling his threats tomorrow!”

Uncontrollable rage twisted Dorbatay’s face. The swarthy interpreter bent over double, fearing the soothsayer would vent his anger on him. But Dorbatay controlled himself; he turned around and walked out. The interpreter followed him, shooting a glance full of bewilderment, at the strangers: these people had been offered such marvelous things — happiness and wealth — and yet they had inexplicably rejected them in favor of death! Shaking his head in wonderment, he walked out with the Scythian who was carrying the oil lamp.

With the only source of light gone, the kibitka was cast into utter darkness. There was a minute of silence, and then Dmitro Borisovich asked, his voice sounding a little dismayed:

“Now, my friends, what are we going to do?”

“Well, at least one thing is clear: we’ll learn a lot about the religious rites of the Scythians,” Artem replied testily. “Though we’ll only find out what it feels like to be sacrificed, I dare say it will be extremely interesting and exciting — from an archeological point of view, of course.”

“Artem, I’m not in the mood for your quips. I asked a serious question. We have a terrible problem on our hands,” the archeologist said reproachfully.

“Now, listen to what I have to say,” Ivan Semenovich broke in. “We’ll have time to talk about everything, but now we must ask Varkan whether he can bring the bags and other things we left as Skolot’s place.”

“Varkan promises to do it,” the archeologist said after he had listened to the Scythian’s reply to this question. “The bags will be here before dawn.”

“That’s good. Oh, there’s one more thing — Dmitro Borisovich, ask Varkan to spread the word among those he trusts that we are prepared to defy the soothsayer. Can you do it?”

“Of course!”

“That’s all for the moment.”

The message passed and received, Varkan slipped out of the kibitka crawling out on the ground under the felt that was cautiously lifted a little. Artem said tentatively: “What if we follow him? Then we could try to get to the forest and hide there until morning, and in the morning, we can start looking for the opening we got here by.”

“That’s out of the question,” Ivan Semenovich said calmly but firmly. “Varkan has lived here all his life. And we’ve been here barely twelve hours. He knows his way around, we don’t. We can’t speak the language. We’re sure to be seized the moment we crawl out of here, and then, the soothsayer may want to begin his sacrificial ceremony right away, without waiting for morning.”

Artem was silent for some time, and then, this time timidly, asked in the complete darkness of the kibitka: “Ivan Semenovich, may I ask one more thing? I’m trying to solve a puzzle, but I can’t, and it’s about to drive me crazy. We have some time to discuss things, don’t we?”

“Go ahead, Artem, go ahead! Since when have you grown so bashful?”

“Well, you said once that in your opinion, we’re in an incredibly large cave… it must be true, I know. But… but how come we’ve found people here? And, for that matter, the Scythians who supposedly died out more than two thousand years ago?”

Ivan Semenovich chuckled. He could not see the faces of Artem and Lida in the darkness but he was sure they were turned to him, listening attentively:

“As a matter of fact, that question should be readdressed to Dmitro Borisovich. He is the one who is an expert in archeology,” the geologist said.

“Archeology has nothing to do with it, Ivan Semenovich,” said Dmitro Borisovich. “It has never dealt with the living Scythians. In our case, they’re very much alive and kicking… In other words, I cannot give any plausible answer to Artem’s questions.”

“Maybe we’re imagining it all,” Lida said hesitantly.

“No, we’re not,” the geologist said with absolute certainty. “We have found the Scythians here, no doubt about that, though in a somewhat ‘canned’ state, so to say.”

“What did you say? Canned? How do you mean?” Artem and Lida cried out at the same time. Dmitro Borisovich made only a disparaging sound in his throat. Canned Scythians indeed!

“I’ve got the impression, my friends, that you’ve unlearned to understand jokes,” Ivan Semenovich went on. “I thought it’d make you laugh, but instead it puzzled you. Well, all right, I’ll explain. I did not mean it in the sense that somebody has put the Scythians into cans to preserve them until we arrive here. Nothing of the kind. You’ve had the chance to see for yourself that these Scythians are not quite the things from a preserve can. And yet — I insist upon my usage of the word: they are, to a great extent, canned products!”

“Ivan Semenovich! Don’t make us solve additional puzzles!” Dmitro Borisovich said. “We’ve got so many others yet!”

“All right, I’ll speak in plain language, without metaphors. By my reckoning, we descended two or three hundred meters below the surface before we came across the big rockfall. Am I right in my estimation?”

“Yes, we must have gone at least that deep.”

“Good. Then, we were attacked by that gas, and we crawled out through an opening to find ourselves in a strange forest, after which our adventures among the Scythians began. Correct?”

“Of course!”

“Hence, that opening was a window, so to say, into the world of the ancient Scythians. We have not used a time machine and yet we observe this ancient world, at least two thousand years old, all around us. We not only observe it, but are being treated rather harshly by it. We have no reason whatsoever to doubt the reality of this world. The question immediately arises: where is this world — or the observable part of it — situated? It would be quite sensible to suppose that it is situated under the ground, in an enormously large subterranean cavity of staggering proportions, cut off from the surface since the ancient times.”

“And the Scythians?”

“To explain their presence here, we have to put forward another hypothesis. At one time in the remote past, there must have existed a passage connecting this subterranean cavity with the outer world. I see no other way of explaining the presence of the Scythians here. So, once a tribe of the Scythians, probably fleeing from danger, inadvertently made their way to this cave and had to remain here because a rockfall blocked the way back. The Scythians found themselves trapped here, with no connections to the rest of the world, and since there were no more outside influences, they retained all their habits and customs of two thousand years ago. We have accidentally walked into their life. That’s about all I can offer by way of conjecture!”

“There’s one thing, Ivan Semenovich, that needs some further clarification. It is a well established fact that the Scythians, no matter at what stage of development they were — from the nomads to land tillers — were people whose lives were inseparably connected with the wide expanses of the steppes. It is very difficult to imagine them becoming accustomed to life underground. We do not know of even a single example when a Scythian tribe used a cave, much less lived underground!” the archeologist protested vehemently.

Ivan Semenovich listened impassively to this and replied:

“You have probably misunderstood me, Dmitro Borisovich. I’m far from suggesting that any Scythian tribe ever preferred living in a cave to life in open areas or that one tribe chose to live underground of its own accord. Absolutely not. I have in mind quite a different thing: one of the tribes took refuge here, trying to escape some great peril, perhaps a strong enemy force. Is this idea acceptable from a historical point of view?”

“Yes, it is,” the archeologist conceded reluctantly.

“Good. Then, quite by chance, pursued by its enemies, a tribe finds itself in front of a big opening in the ground… Now, tell me, is it too far-fetched to imagine it might enter in an attempt to hide from its enemies?”

“Well, yes, that is plausible…”

“So, our tribe moves further and further away from the opening, seeing wide vistas opening up before it… probably that was not as difficult for the tribe as it was for us to get here. There must have been a shorter and less hazardous way, otherwise the steppe-loving Scythians would hardly have proceeded all the way into this cave. What happened next is evident: a sudden rockfall prevented the tribe from returning to the surface, and the Scythians stayed underground. And, cut off from the rest of the world as they were, they naturally preserved all their customs, life style, and so on — all those traits and features we now observe. That is the way I see it.”

Nobody said a word, pondering what had been said. It was, indeed, the only plausible explanation they could think of, albeit it was a somewhat fantastic one. The immense vastness of a subterranean cavity, cut off from the outside world? A Scythian tribe that had wandered into it thousands of years ago with its slaves and remained because it could not find the way out?…

“Of what size, then, must this underground cavity be if it contains forests, fields, and valleys?” Ivan Semenovich asked aloud. “It must stretch for dozens, if not for hundreds of kilometers. That is not a phenomenon entirely unknown in geology. We do know of subterranean cavities of considerable size, though, of course, not as large as this one.”

“Yes, it has forests, a steppe and even mountains,” Artem said.

“I don’t think that the cliffs we have seen are real mountains; rather, they are the walls that run around all sides of the cavity. If it is a cave, consequently it must have walls which probably rise dozens or hundreds meters high. From a distance, they seem to be the cliffs of very steep mountains. We can’t see the ceiling of the cave because of the ever-present cloud cover, probably due to high humidity.”

“Ivan Semenovich!” Dmitro Borisovich suddenly said in a voice much too loud. “Now I remember! Your hypothesis may indeed be supported by some statements in Herodotus. A passage from the work of this Greek historian has just come to mind. He says that the Scythians were mortally afraid of earthquakes which they regarded as the greatest possible calamity, probably because tremors were an extremely rare but devastating phenomenon in their lives. Then we must make a further step in our analysis of the situation and try to determine what could have caused such a considerable rockfall to cut a whole tribe off and bar their way back? It could have been caused by an earthquake, couldn’t it?”

“Yes, it could,” Ivan Semenovich agreed. “But where does that lead us?”

“Ah… the Scythians, who had seen one of their tribes disappear from the face of the earth, could easily have connected this disappearance with the earthquake which had swallowed so many of their people. What do you say to that?”

“It is not impossible,” the geologist said, shrugging his shoulders.

“This event must have increased the Scythians’ natural fear of earthquakes. So, Ivan Semenovich, your supposition finds some parallel in Herodotus, and I accept it.”

“I’m most obliged to you for that, Dmitro Borisovich,” said Ivan Semenovich, some irony creeping into his voice. “Do you have anything more to add?”

“Well, only one thing. Since we have discovered a Scythian tribe that has survived to our day thanks to a most unusual chain of coincidences which you have brilliantly delineated, we now face a task of paramount scientific importance.”

“What task?”

“To study in a most thorough manner the life of this Scythian tribe. It is an absolutely unique case in the history of archeology! Not to make use of it would be a serious crime. I think that even you, Ivan Semenovich, with your perennial scepticism toward archeology, must agree with me on this point. I don’t ask the opinion of Lida and Artem on the matter because I’m sure they support me fully. Am I right, Artem?”

The young man nodded his head: the life of the Scythians was, of course, a most exciting thing to learn about, and in this respect, Dmitro Borisovich was surely right. But they had yet to see what the dawn would bring. What if Dorbatay really intended to carry out his threats? In that case, their field trip might be a short one. But Artem did not voice his apprehensions.

“Count me in, too,” Lida said; she was so tired by now the only thing she craved at the moment was sleep. Were they going to talk much longer? But the indefatigable Artem had another question ready for the geologist:

“Ivan Semenovich, there’s something else I don’t understand.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Well, if we accept your hypothesis as correct in explaining all that we find here, and if we’re in fact in a cave, what about the light? The sun can’t be the source of it, nor the moon. And it’s not electric light of course. So what is it then?”

“You expect too much of me, Artem,” said the geologist. “Unfortunately, I don’t understand it either. I could put forward some conjectures to explain it, but they would remain unsubstantiated guesses. We could assume, for example, that it is some radioactive elements in the ceiling that are the source of light here. Or perhaps constant fluorescence. Could either of the two be the source of the observed phenomenon? Yes, I believe they could. The light we see in this cave is diffused and reminiscent of early dusk because the source of it remains hidden by these heavy clouds.”

“Yes, we could accept those as plausible explanations,” Artem said. “But what about the night then?”

“Oh, will you let me be for a while, Artem? How can I possibly know the answers to all these questions? I’ve been here for exactly as long as you.”

“Oh, Ivan Semenovich, I’m only asking you to give us another of your hypotheses,” Artem insisted. “Even if it’s just a supposition, you know, it’ll still make it a little easier for me…”

“All right, I’ll try to put forward another of my ‘suppositions,’” the geologist chuckled. “There could be periodical fluctuations in the intensity of radiation from radioactive materials. For example, we could assume that our radioactive substance — if, of course, we’re right in citing radioactivity as the source of light here! — radiates light only under the influence of the sun’s rays. It gets charged up like some special paints, for example. But I must warn you I don’t insist on my explanations, and if you chance upon something more convincing, I’d be happy to hear them. The way things are going it looks like we’ll have plenty of time for everything… Lida, do you want to ask something?” Ivan Semenovich turned to the girl, hearing her restless movements. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia, mind you. So go ahead and fire away! But I warn you, it’s going to be the last one for now!”

As a matter of fact, Lida was not going to ask anything as she was overwhelmed by fatigue. But now that Ivan Semenovich had mentioned her name, she might as well ask something. Was it only Artem who had the right to ask questions? After all, there was something that Lida intended to ask about. It had been on her mind off and on, but then something always interfered.

“Ivan Semenovich,” she said sleepily, “I wonder why the plants here are such unusual colors. How can the leaves and grass be pink and yellow and not green? Why should they have developed this coloring?”

“Oh, well. All right, now we’ll try to find some reason for that. It must be easier than the rest of the things that we discussed. What causes the plants on the surface to be green? Chlorophyl. What is chlorophyl? It’s a green substance that absorbs the energy of sunlight and turns it into chemicals without which no plants could live, right?”

“Of course! That’s from the textbook!”

“Good. But we are talking of conditions where sunlight is present, and there is no sunlight here. What were the plants to do? Die? No, living organisms always try to adopt to whatever conditions they find themselves in. Instead of sunlight, they use the local source of light, and they have probably developed a new substance to take the place of chlorophyl with similar properties, though of a different color. It is not green any longer but pinkish-yellow, adjusted not to the bright sunshine but to the mild light of the underground radiation. This adjustment to new conditions is the only thing that I can suggest now. Do you accept it, Lida?”

But Lida did not reply: the geologist heard the even, measured breathing of the girl which meant that she was sleeping peacefully. Ivan Semenovich smiled to himself gently and said, lowering his voice:

“Artem, Lida’s falling asleep shows that we should stop our scientific discussions. It’s time to go to sleep; everybody’s tired and we must be in shape for whatever awaits us on the morrow. There’s only one more thing that we should settle now — our general line of behavior.”

He cleared his throat, pulled his pipe from his pocket, filled it, and lit it. The unsteady light of his pipe that alternately flared up and grew feeble threw sharp fleeting shadows across his face. At last he said slowly and pensively: “One thing is clear: we can’t side with Dorbatay and the priests. Neither can we embrace the cause of Skolot who differs but little from his brother. Both of them want to manipulate us in their own interests. We must side with the ordinary Scythians who have been duped by the soothsayer and with the oppressed slaves.

“I think we should take the measure of Varkan. He has revealed but a fraction of what he could. I’m not saying it in reproach — it’s quite natural to want to know the people you’re dealing with better before you trust them, and he hasn’t had much of a chance to get to know us. But, my friends, I believe that he and the likes of him — young Scythians, low-born hunters and warriors, could be of some help to us. But all of them seem to be adherents of Skolot, which means that at least for the time being, we’ll have to gamble on this group, and consequently on Skolot…”

^UA tactical move, Ivan Semenovich?” Artem chuckled.

“Well, in such a dangerous and complicated situation as ours, something can be gained, I believe, only through a crafty tactical move,” the geologist said. “But I know for sure that we’ll get the best of Dorbatay, tomorrow and in the days to come. The old rogue has committed a huge blunder: he showed his hand and now we know his cards, but he doesn’t know ours! Excellent! Let’s use it to our own advantage.”

“Oh, but mustn’t Dmitro Borisovich and I be let in on your secret plans?” remarked Artem.

“That’s what I’m going to do. All the more so that the main part in the show I’m planning will go to you, Artem. Now, move closer. I’ll tell you what my stratagem is…”

The short pipe of Ivan Semenovich remained the only source of light flickering in the utter darkness. Dmitro Borisovich and Artem were listening very eagerly, trying not to miss a single word. Once in a while, Dmitro Borisovich pulled his beard out of habit, and sometimes he rubbed his hands nervously. Artem was enthralled with the geologist’s plan and had no doubt it would work. What a pity Lida was sleeping and unable to hear it! But on the other hand, it’d be all the more thrilling for her to watch! Or maybe he should tell her when she woke up? All right, he decided to wait and see. But for now — he had to listen, listen attentively!

Artem had his eyes riveted on the geologist almost in rapture.

There was yet another pair of eyes that were fastened on Ivan Semenovich, and there was readiness in them to fulfil any command that the geologist deigned to issue. The eyes were half-closed, the gaze seemed languid, and the reflection of the light from the pipe could hardly be seen in them. But these eyes saw everything very clearly, and even though Diana did not understand what it was that Ivan Semenovich was telling his friends, she must have felt only too well the tension throbbing in this strange night so fraught with danger, with even greater anxiety growing as the dawn drew nearer.

CHAPTER FOUR

The explorers wake up to face the messenger from Dorbatay, refuse once again to accept Dorbatay’s conditions, and are escorted to the site where the sacrifice is to take place; Artem comes out a winner in the confrontation with Dorbatay, and Skolot invites the explorers to be his guests of honor; Ivan Semenovich makes a bold and subtle move and gets what he wants.

Artem had a dream which featured a Young Pioneers’ Gamp he had been to several times as a child. He dreamed about the time everybody was allowed to do what he pleased, and the boys and girls all wandered off in different directions, but then the drum began calling them back. The drumbeat permeated the camp, sounding very urgent. But the Young Pioneers were in no hurry to get back. The drumming continued, persistent and urging, driving Artem mad; the beat drew nearer, grew louder as though the drummer were looking specifically for him. The drummer was definitely bent on waking Artem up with his irritating drumming. Artem opened his eyes and looked around.

The strange, nagging, drumming sounds did not cease and Artem realized it was not in fact the drumbeat he had heard in his sleep. It was something else which sounded like tambourines and flutes played simultaneously, and they did possess some annoyingly persistent quality. Now, some other high-pitched sound joined in, as though a simple melody were being played on fifes. He could also hear some movement outside the kibitka, as though many people were rushing hither and thither. Artem got up.

Dmitro Borisovich was lying on a piece of felt, his head supported on his hand, listening. Ivan Semenovich was pacing to and fro in the kibitka, his hands clasped behind his back, a deep frown on his brow. Lida was still sound asleep.

“Good morning, Artem,” the geologist said, stopping at the young man’s side. “Did you have a good sleep? How’s your mood? It’s time to get ready for the show.”

Artem was jostled into action by these words: there was a lot to do and he had not yet begun! He turned to the bags that had been slipped in by Varkan before dawn. Lida woke up, staring in incomprehension at her friends, at Diana restlessly running around. The light of morning was pouring in through the opening in the top of the kibitka. The girl opened and closed her eyes in rapid succession, utterly bewildered.

“Oh, I’ve not been dreaming!” she said at last. “And I hoped so much I’d wake up to find myself at home…”

“No, unfortunately you’ve not been dreaming it all up,” Artem said, rummaging through the bags. “Get up, very soon we’ll leave to attend a big show.”

“You’ve used the right word, Artem: it’s going to be quite a show with a big audience watching,” Ivan Semenovich said, smiling: Artem’s cheerful mood had to be supported. “Don’t worry, Lida. Artem is well prepared to play the leading role in the spectacle!”

“What show? What are you talking about?” the girl said, completely nonplussed, as she had not heard of Ivan Semenovich’s plans.

“Lida, you’re going to see everything for yourself. I can guarantee it’s going to be a thriller,” Artem said enigmatically, and added: “I’d explain everything to you, but there’s no time for explanations now. I hear them coming to take us to the show!”

In fact, at almost the same moment, the piece of felt over the door to the kibitka was jerked aside by several Scythians armed with daggers, evidently the soothsayer’s henchmen. Two more Scythians entered and stopped at the entrance. The short swarthy man who had acted as an interpreter the previous night slipped into the kibitka, shooting fearful glances at Diana. He bowed and hastily launched his speech, which had apparently been prepared beforehand.

“The strangers must leave the kibitka. They must go without resistance to the place they will be led to. If they refuse to go they will be…”

The archeologist interrupted him angrily: “Unnecessary talk. We’re ready to go.”

The short man bowed again. He seemed to be a little uneasy in the presence of the strangers and stepped back. But there was something else he had to say. He looked the strangers over, and seeing no immediate danger to himself, he said:

“The glorious Dorbatay charged me to remind the strangers of his handsome proposals. The glorious Dorbatay says that…”

“We don’t care to know what Dorbatay says,” Dmitro Borisovich interrupted the short man sharply. “We gave our unequivocal answer yesterday. We’ve got nothing more to add. Let’s go!”

The subdued murmur of a big crowd reached their ears when they emerged from the kibitka. Many armed horsemen were waiting for them to emerge. The crowd was standing at a considerable distance, reluctant to come any closer. About a dozen of the soothsayer’s assistants, dagger points forward, encircled the strangers, and then the riders surrounded them on all sides. The procession began moving. But where to?

“Dorbatay is not anywhere around,” Artem said.

“He’s much too important to walk along with us,” Lida said.

“We’re going to see him, and soon enough at that,” the archeologist said.

The tambourines and flutes resumed their music, and now Ivan Semenovich could see who the musicians were. One of the riders was holding a big tambourine, and two others had smaller ones. Three more riders were blowing long pipes which looked as though they were made of bones.

Dmitro Borisovich was also watching the musicians. He touched the geologist’s shoulder.

“Those pipes, aren’t they something?” he said. “To think only that someone once ran and walked on them.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Oh, it’s very simple. See what they’re made of?”

“What is it?”

“Bone.”

“All right. But what’s so unusual about that?”

“Oh, it’s a human tibia, a shinbone, Ivan Semenovich!”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Similar instruments, once used by the ancient Scythians, were found in excavations. In fact such human tibiae, sawed-off on both sides, polished and hollowed out, have been found in many barrows. Opinions differed as to what purpose they served. Some said they were musical instruments, others — that they were used in milking mares. But now everything has been clarified. They’re pipes, musical instruments! That’s what they are! Pipes made of human shinbones!”

The archeologist was right: it was easy to recognize the characteristic curve of the shinbone; the size was right too.

“The dirt road has ended,” Artem said abruptly. “From now on we’ll probably be walking right through the steppe. See how tall the grass is all around.”

The circle of the riders around the explorers widened, probably because Diana dashed hither and thither inside it, causing the riders to move back a little to keep their distance from the dreaded dog.

The sound of tambourines came from somewhere in the distance. That must have been a signal for the riders in the front rows to gallop away into the steppe.

A wide view of the steppe, overgrown with tall grass of that extraordinary yellowish-pink color, opened before the explorers. It looked like a very wide, flat mountain valley, flanked on its right by the unnatural pinkish woods, with mountains looming high beyond it in the distance, and disappearing in the thick gray clouds. In fact, the mountains could be seen not only beyond the forest: they encircled the steppe on all sides. Artem recollected the conversation with the geologist last night — if his hypothesis was to be accepted, then these mountains must be the inner walls of the gigantic subterranean cavity. It would be interesting to find out whether any of the Scythians ever tried to climb them.

The procession was moving through the flat steppe. Only a mound of moderate size could be seen in the distance; it was in the direction of this mound that the riders had galloped off. There was a strange structure topping the mound; it did resemble neither a temple, nor a house, nor even a tent.

It was just a big black pile in the shape of a crude pyramid. People were swarming all over the slopes of the mound. It seemed that the entire population of the Scythian camp had gathered here: some were on horseback, others came on foot; there were women and even children there. Artem’s sharp eyes discerned a group of slaves standing to the side. Right by the black pyramid, Skolot, wearing the gleaming gold helmet, was to be seen on his horse, surrounded by his warriors.

Lida grabbed Artem by the hand. There was anxiety in her voice.

“Look, there’s Dorbatay over there. And that disgusting Hartak is at his side. They seem to be sticking together!”

“Don’t worry! I assure you everything’ll be all right,” the young man said cheerfully. But lie was not so unperturbed as he pretended. He had not expected to see so many people gathered here. Would he be able to do what had been planned in front of this multitude? His disturbed glance sought Ivan Semenovich. The geologist replied with an energetic nod of his head: everything’ll be all right, and everything’s going according to plan.

The procession was meanwhile drawing closer and closer to the black pyramid. It turned out to be a huge pile of dry branches and twigs, and served as the ceremonial sacred altar of the Scythians. Dmitro Borisovich had no doubts now that the pyramid was an altar. He could see a wooden ladder reaching to the top of the big pile. A huge old, blackened scimitar was sticking from the very top of it. Something was evidently holding it in an upright position, point upward. The whole arrangement was very close to what the archeologist thought ancient Scythian altars must have looked like judging from the available archeological and historical evidence.

Dorbatay was standing by the ladder wearing his ceremonial scarlet cloak decorated with plates of gold sewn to it. His cold, hostile eyes were searching the faces of the strangers for signs of fear or anxiety. But in vain! The explorers were quietly looking over the altar, the old soothsayer, his assistants, and the burly priestesses with their daggers and curved knives. It was they, the Scythians, who were nervously watching the strangers accompanied by the dread poskina; it was they, the assistants, who would have to deal with the miracle-working strangers endowed with magical powers.

Skolot, his bodyguard, and his warriors formed a separate group. The old chieftain did not look as self-assured as he had the day before in spite of his obvious attempts to preserve his usual forbidding appearance of contemptuous and indifferent haughtiness. His hands played nervously with the reins; from time to time he exchanged short, clipped phrases with his warriors. The old chieftain was probably apprehensive that Dorbatay would use his position as “owner” of the strangers to his own advantage. The previous night, the soothsayer had categorically rejected all proposals that Skolot had made concerning the ransoming of the strangers. He had refused to turn them over to the chieftain, and now the foreign wizards, craftily manipulated by the soothsayer, could do a lot of harm to the chieftain’s cause.

There was one more person who could hardly suppress his anxiety. It was Varkan. As soon as the procession approached close enough, Artem recognized him among the warriors who were standing a little aside from the group of extravagantly dressed bodyguards. The group Varkan was in looked much more somber, with no costly things decorating their dress. It was clear from the first glance that Varkan was a central figure among the low-born warriors. Artem wondered why. Weren’t all of these warriors equal in social status? But of course, this question had to remain unanswered for the time being.

A group of the high-born Scythians, haughty and self- assured, sitting on richly embellished horses, was stationed not far from Dorbatay, between his numerous assistants and Skolot’s warriors. The high-born Scythians deported themselves with great dignity, well aware of their power and strength. They stared at the strangers with open hostility.

Somewhat further downhill, the rest of the Scythians stood murmuring. They did not have any ornaments on their clothes, even the simplest bronze ones. They were a uniform mass of people with no one having anything to distinguish him or her from the rest. At the foot of the mound, the crowd was even bigger; it consisted of the Scythians and slaves who did not have the right to approach the altar any closer.

Lida could not help glancing stealthily at Hartak who was sitting on a horse with richly adorned harness. His horse and his dress were definitely marks of his lofty status. He was also wearing a round bronze helmet, and a sword hung suspended from his belt. But all in all, everything about him had an artificial, even humorous aspect. The sword seemed to be pulling him to one side, making him appear even more bent; the bronze helmet weighed his head down. He cut a sorry figure sitting so awkwardly on his horse. But in spite of all this, he struck the girl as her arch-enemy. She could not help shuddering as she looked at his bony, twisted face.

Now the explorers were left almost to themselves with only a few of the soothsayer’s assistants standing near. There were four robust priestesses close by, holding two slaves whose hands were bound. Dorbatay’s threats of “sacrifices to be made at the ceremony” came to Artem’s mind. These two hapless slaves, bereft of any chance of defending themselves, were to be sacrificed! He turned sharply to Ivan Semenovich:

“What if they begin with these slaves? What do we do then?” the young man’s face reflected his confusion. The geologist did not have time to reply.

At that moment the soothsayer raised his arms into the air in a gesture that had become so familiar to the explorers. It must have been the signal for the ceremony to begin, for almost immediately, all his acolytes also hoisted their hands up. An ominous silence fell over the place.

Dorbatay began chanting something in a high-pitched, hoarse voice. He bowed low before the pyramid of branches, straightened up, stretching his arms toward the big blackened scimitar sticking from the top of the pyramid. A gentle wind ruffled the folds of his scarlet cloak, making the old soothsayer look like a monstrously huge bird of prey ready to descend on its victim. The acolytes imitated all the movements of Dorbatay.

The tune of the song the old soothsayer was singing changed abruptly. The acolytes ceased their chanting as though directed to stop. Now Dorbatay was singing all alone, pitching the song too high, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Then he flailed his arms and the chant was picked up again by all the acolytes. Dmitro Borisovich leaned forward to whisper into the geologist’s ear:

“There was something in his song that concerned us. He mixed Greek words with Scythian, but I could get the general drift.”

“That’s interesting. What did he say?”

“Something along this line: ‘Strangers! We’ll sacrifice you’ to the gods if you do not give in. There’s still time to stop the sacrifice. Say that you accept my conditions. Otherwise you will die. But first you will watch these slaves die.’ It sounded like both a warning and a threat.”

“That’s all there was to it?” Ivan Semenovich asked nonchalantly.

“Basically, yes.”

“I’m afraid he won’t get any positive answer from us to his proposals. Or maybe you are of a different opinion?”

“Of course not!” the archeologist cried out indignantly. “How could you think such a thing of me?”

“I’m glad you said so. Now we know at least that Dorba- tay wants to start with the slaves and not with us. So much the better!”

The chant ended. Dorbatay barked fiercely several concluding words which were evidently meant to whip the listening Scythians into a frenzy. He was quite successful in it since in response he got wild shouts and clanging of weapons; the bows were drawn, and a rain of long-shafted arrows was released; the arrows described a long arch and landed at quite a distance from the mound.

Two acolytes handed Dorbatay a large gold bowl and a long stone knife with the golden haft.

“The bowl and the knife are the traditional sacred ritual objects of the Scythian soothsayers,” Dmitro Borisovich whose archeological curiosity had again been roused, began whispering excitedly.

Dorbatay raised the bowl and the knife into the air ceremoniously and shouted something very loudly as though addressing some request to the clouds that were moving slowly across the sky. Dmitro Borisovich said:

“He’s speaking half Greek, half Scythian again. He says that the strangers will see with their own eyes what will happen to them in just a short while, so they’d better hurry up with the acceptance of his proposals.”

Ivan Semenovich shook his head silently, without taking his eyes from the altar and what was going on beside it.

Dorbatay lowered the knife, its point downward. That was also a signal. The soothsayer’s assistants who had been holding the bound slaves, now began dragging them toward the soothsayer. One of the slaves uttered a piercing cry, trying to free himself. The other slave, treading heavily, moved on without resisting, evidently having relinquished all hope of deliverance. Loud shouts came from the crowd. Artem went pale. He cried out:

“They’ll kill them! Ivan Semenovich, they will! We can’t let it happen!”

There was a deep frown on the geologist’s brow. He grabbed the young man by the shoulder.

“Wait, Artem, wait. The time for us to act will come very soon.”

Meanwhile the assistants were dragging the slaves toward Dorbatay. As the soothsayer was waiting his wandering gaze fell upon the strangers: there was a menace and triumph in his eyes. The first slave had already stopped his wailing; he seemed to have lost his voice. He was only making hoarse wheezing sounds, his head hanging back. The excited murmur in the crowd was growing, but above it rose the hysterical lamenting of a woman. Ivan Semenovich gently pushed Artem forward.

“Now’s the time, young man!”

In one leap Artem was at Dorbatay’s side; the latter was startled by Artem’s sudden movement, and stepped back. The soothsayer’s assistants did not so much as budge to intercept Artem, so sudden and swift was his leap. Now he was standing right in front of the old soothsayer, with arms akimbo, his stance expressing contempt. Diana was at his side, baring her teeth and growling menacingly, ready to defend her master.

A dead silence fell over the steppe. Everyone froze. Everybody was waiting to see what the mighty, glorious Dorbatay would do to the impertinent stranger who, in Dorbatay’s words, had been forsaken by the gods. Surely the great man had stepped back to have more room to set about incinerating the stranger.

Dorbatay, unlocking his clenched feeth with difficulty, shouted something wildly to his assistants, pointing at Artem with the stone knife. But they did not have the pluck to approach the young man. Once again, as it happened on the previous day, the old soothsayer had to face the challenger all by himself.

Artem was quick to use the situation to his full advantage.

“Listen, you, old rogue!” he said very loudly right into the soothsayer’s face. “Your rule’s finished. I challenge you to a contest. Show all the tricks you’re capable of. I’ll show mine. Then we’ll see who’s a more powerful magician. Where’s your interpreter?”

Knowing that Dorbatay could not understand a single word of what he was saying, he added:

“All right, now I’ll explain everything to you, nice and clear. Varkan, Varkan!”

Varkan urged his horse forward and in a moment was at Artem’s side. Artem said:

“Dmitro Borisovich, tell Varkan everything that should be interpreted to this rogue, the soothsayer, that is, and to all the rest of the Scythians!”

Varkan listened to the archeologist and then began speaking, his voice strong and loud enough to be heard by all the Scythians. A loud clamor arose from the crowd. Dorbatay’s face clouded. Now Artem had cut all paths of retreat. The crowd was waiting for Dorbatay’s reply to the challenge of the audacious stranger; all eyes were fastened on him. The old soothsayer had at last made up his mind. He shouted his reply to the young man in a hoarse voice, that was brimming with menace.

“He says that the gods will reduce you, Artem, to ashes,” the archeologist translated. “Aren’t you scared?”

“All right, we’ll see shortly who’ll be more successful in using the heavenly fire! You start, old man! I invite your gods to incinerate me! But mind you, if you fail, then it’ll be my turn!”

Artem was standing in front of Dorbatay, composed and unimpressed by the soothsayer’s threats. Dorbatay realized then that in his rage, he said something he should never have said, and that the stranger was aware of this. The crowd meanwhile was waiting for the terrible punishment to be executed, and every minute that passed without anything happening was one more point in favor of the stranger! Still holding the sacred bowl and knife in his hands, Dorbatay began uttering his imprecations. He strained so much, shouting them that the muscles of his old withered neck stood out, once in a while he shifted from shouting to sinister hissing and then back to shouting; he waved his arms as though inviting all the fiendish elements of nature to unleash their fury upon the young malefactor. The latter remained as self-possessed as before, showing no fear. Artem was even smirking! A surging murmur passed through the crowd, and there was some new quality in that murmur. Artem felt that the mood of the crowd was shifting in his favor. Dorbatay was losing his hold over the Scythians! Artem decided to use the moment to speed up the downfall of the soothsayer. He boldly stepped forward and stood very close to the old man who kept waving the knife and the bowl wildly.

“It doesn’t seem to be working, eh?” Artem asked sarcastically. ^UI don’t feel any flames burning me. So, make room, you’ve failed! Step aside, old man, now it’s my turn!”

“Artem, watch out!” Lida cried out a warning.

In an abrupt and swift movement nobody would have expected him capable of, Dorbatay rushed at Artem, his knife poised high, ready to strike. Another moment, and he would have driven it home into Artem’s chest. But at the very last instant he started back though Artem did not stir, never trying to parry the blow. Diana, watchful and always on guard, leaped forward, aiming at the soothsayer’s throat. Her jaws closed with a snap, missing him by hardly an inch. Dorbatay was immensely lucky to have been able to recoil in time! Diana landed on her feet and stood ready for another attack. Her bristling hair, bared teeth, and low growl indicated her readiness to go into action.

“Ah, so that’s how you want it!” Artem said slowly, as though perplexed. “You’ve realized that you can’t call your heavenly fire down on me, so you’ve decided to stab me with your knife? That’s where you’re wrong. No good even trying. But now it’s my turn. I warned you, didn’t I? Open your eyes wider!”

In an unaffected gesture, Artem pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Dead silence fell over the crowd. Hundreds of eyes were following Artem’s every movement. The young man knew it and, after inhaling the smoke, released it slowly and deliberately right into the face of Dorbatay who stood stunned by the performance.

“Aha, you don’t like it? Wait, I have something else up my sleeve. Dmitro Borisovich! I want Varkan to translate that now I will knock the soothsayer down without even touching him, with the help of the heavenly fire. Yes, the heavenly fire will topple him over!”

Yarkan translated what had been transmitted to him by Dmitro Borisovich. Dorbatay’s face showed reluctance to believe the stranger would be able to do it. The soothsayer probably thought that his opponent was trying to scare him into submission, the thing he himself had just tried to do. After all, Dorbatay knew better than anyone else the true worth of “the heavenly fire”! He put one foot forward, his stance and newly regained composure showing that he was not intimidated by the threats of the impertinent stranger.

“I see that you’ve prepared yourself for what’s to come. All right, here it goes!”

Artem took a small object out of his pocket and put it close to the lit cigarette that was sticking out of his mouth. In a moment the object began hissing and smoking. Artem held it high and hurled it to the ground, right at the soothsayer’s feet.

“Now, let’s watch what happens. Now everyone will see whether you’re strong enough to stay on your feet!”

Dorbatay panicked and was about to bolt when he saw the strange object hissing at his feet like a furious miniature monster. To make things look even more terrifying, it was smoking. But the soothsayer understood only too well that if he bolted, it would immediately spell the end of his influence over the Scythians. So, suppressing his great fear of the smoking magical object, he stayed put, only shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Just one moment,” Artem said, “and here it comes! Hold on, old man!”

The moment he said it, there was a deafening crack at Dorbatay’s feet. Fire seemed to leap from the ground and hurl him into the air. It was impossible to say whether the old soothsayer was felled by the explosion or by the terrible fright he took from seeing the fire and hearing the ear- splitting crack, but whatever the cause of his fall, he flew into the air, turned over, flailed his arms, and dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, face upward. As he fell, he dropped the sacred bowl and the sacred knife and they rolled over to rest at Artem’s feet. Then Dorbatay turned face down and remained in that position, wrapped in the loose folds of his ceremonial scarlet cloak as though afraid to look at the powerful young magician who had brought down fire and thunder from the heavens, much less to rise.

Once again, silence fell over the crowd. The Scythians appeared to have stopped breathing; they stared at Artem, seeing in him a terrifying creature endowed with great supernatural powers. He had not been destroyed by the gods in spite of all the soothsayer’s efforts. Quite the reverse: it was Artem who had secured their aid and brought down fire and thunder, felling Dorbatay who was now lying helpless and motionless on the ground!

The young man picked up the gold bowl and stone knife from the ground and examined them. He moved with complete confidence as though not afraid of anything now. Who could attempt an attack on him after his remarkable victory over the seemingly omnipotent Dorbatay?

“Nice workmanship,” Artem.said looking the bowl and the knife over. “If I had found them back there in the cave, I would have been very glad. But now I’ve got to deal with more urgent matters than studying rare museum pieces. Hey, you, over there! Release those two fellows right away!”

He walked over to the priests who were holding the two bound slaves. The priests did not wait for Artem to come close, but letting go of the slaves, they ran to hide behind the pyramidal pile of branches. The slaves did not even dare to as much as stir. Their fear-filled eyes were fixed on Artem. They seemed to be mutely asking him to spare them. Artem realized then that the slaves took him for just another bloodthirsty soothsayer, no different from Dorbatay, and naturally assumed that he, Artem, was going to kill them. Wasn’t he holding the sacrificial knife and the bowl in his hands?

“I’m a friend, don’t be afraid of me,” Artem said gently. “I’m going to use this knife for a purpose quite different from the one you have in mind. Now, here we go.”

He sliced swiftly with the knife through the ropes, with which the slaves’ hands were bound.

“How sharp it is!” Artem exclaimed in amazement. “It’s made of stone, but it’s razor sharp! Now, you can go back to your people. And if anybody tries to hurt you again, he’ll have to deal with me. Spread the word.”

He gently pushed them to show them they were free to go. They started running downhill, without looking back, waving their arms frenziedly. Artem watched them run, and then turned to Dorbatay who had propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes seemed to follow Artem’s every movement.

“Get up, old man. Enough lying about. You’re not hurt, are you? One little primer cap went off at his feet, and he thinks it was a shell. Get up, I tell you.”

Dorbatay rose as though he had understood the command. His face was covered with dust, the gray hair tousled, the cloak awry. The sharp, fierce and hostile eyes bored into Artem, the arch-enemy. But for all that, the old man did not seem to be in a hurry to launch another attack; he evidently realized there was nothing he could do at the moment. After a short silence, Dorbatay bent his head and murmured several words of sumbission in a constricted voice.

“Ah, well, that’s all right,” Artem said, laughing after hearing the translation. “It must be hard for you to admit that I’m more powerful than you are. We’ll have to agree on this point, though it was clear all along. But now everybody has seen that. This is the end of your supremacy, Dorbatay!”

He looked around. The crowd was listening to him, trying to guess the meaning of his words. The Scythians now regarded him as a real magician. What else could a man who breathed smoke, who called forth fire and thunder from the ground, who knocked down the hitherto omnipotent Dorbatay without even touching him, who was accompanied by the dread poskina be but a true wizard? Hundreds of eyes were riveted on Artem, their expression ranging from awe to fear. But at least two persons were giving him sidelong glances filled with resentment and hate.

One of them was the old soothsayer.: could he reconcile himself to defeat, to the loss of his previous undisputed influence over the Scythians? The other was Hartak who also had much to lose in the defeat of Dorbatay. The rich and high-born Scythian looked somewhat deflated.

Dmitro Borisovich grabbed the geologist’s hand and shook it exuberantly.

“I must say you hit on an excellent idea!”

“You shouldn’t give all credit to me,” protested the geologist. “Part of credit, and probably the better part, should go to Artem. Besides, he played the leading role in our little spectacle, didn’t he?”

“Oh, we’ll express our admiration of his performance to him personally a bit later. What do you say to that, Lida?”

The girl had been much impressed by what had taken place, no doubt of that. It was, of course, only but natural: she was the only one of the four explorers who had not taken part in discussing the plan, so everything that Artem did had come as a complete surprise to her. Now Lida could hardly control the nervous laughter that was the psychological reaction to all the anxieties of the morning. Now, when the grave danger that had been hanging over them since last night had lifted, Lida had an impulsive desire to kiss Ivan Semenovich and Dmitro Borisovich, but Artem was topmost on her list. Nonetheless, she gave the archeologist a resounding kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, Dmitro Borisovich, everything is great!”

Artem was still out of earshot, but when he came up to his friends, the faithful Diana at his side, the first question he asked was:

“It looks like I did everything according to plan, didn’t I, Ivan Semenovich? Did I do anything wrong?”

“No. Everything was fine* except some of your expressions like ‘old rogue.’”

“But he couldn’t understand me anyway, could he?” Artem said ingenuously. “Besides, I had to vent my anger on somebody… By the way, Dmitro Borisovich, what should I do with these things?” Artem asked, indicating the bowl and the knife he was still holding in his hands. “They must be of great value, especially from an archeological point of view. And for me they’re also a trophy.”

Dmitro Borisovich, his eyes shining with fresh archeological enthusiasm, was about to take the sacred Scythian things from Artem’s hands when he was mercilessly stopped by Ivan Semenovich.

“These things must be immediately returned to the acolytes,” he said in a commanding tone. “It would be a great offense if we appropriated them. You should have thought of that yourself, Dmitro Borisovich! I realize that you’re dying to examine them thoroughly. But you can’t have them, I’m sorry. You can look at them, but without taking them into your hands. It is Artem who has become a sort of substitute for Dorbatay in the eyes of the Scythians, and he will return their ritual objects to them.”

“That’s a pity,” Dmitro Borisovich grumbled out in reply; he was loath to part with the two archeological treasures but he did see that the geologist was absolutely right. “Yes, that’s what should be done. But my friends, just think how lucky I’ve been — to witness the sacrificial rite of the Scythians! Unfortunately, it was not carried out to the end as it should have been…”

“Unfortunately, you say? You’re sorry no one was sacrificed?”

“Of course not, not in that sense anyway… But we do know how the rite would have proceeded… With this stone knife, Dorbatay would cut the victims’ throats, the victims being held by the assistants, of course. The blood would spurt into the gold bowl…”

Lida was overcome by nausea. But the archeologist had already warmed up to his subject and had stopped paying attention to anything around him. He continued:

“Then, Dorbatay or one of the priests would cut the victim’s right hand off and throw it high into the air. Dorbatay himself would carry the gold bowl with the victim’s blood in it to the top of the pyramid and pour;Lt over the sacred scimitar. Incidentally, that is probably why the scimitar looks so black. Well, that’s how, to the best of my knowledge, the sacrificial rite of the Scythians was usually conducted…”

“One thing is clear anyway, Dmitro Borisovich. You bear me a grudge for stealing the show and not letting you see how it would have gone with your own eyes,” Artem said sarcastically.

“Or not even to see it but go through the whole experience yourself,” Ivan Semenovich added, drawing his hand across his throat.

“Oh, damn you!” said the archeologist in annoyance. “I was trying to tell you about a serious matter and you have nothing better to do than to poke fun at me… I wish I hadn’t told you anything.”

The conversation came abruptly to a halt when Skolot had ridden over to the explorers, his stern face wearing a smile. His voice sounded soft and friendly:

“Skolot congratulates the strangers on their victory over Dorbatay. Skolot wants them to know that he would not have allowed Dorbatay’s threats to be carried out in any case. But it is better, of course, that everything happened the way it did, without violence. Skolot’s warriors were ready to use force if necessary. Now no one will ever dare to do you any harm. Skolot invites the strangers to his home. You are welcome to be his guests of honor.”

, That was essentially what he said in the double interpretation of Varkan and Dmitro Borisovich. The archeologist was about to reply that they would be glad to accept the kind invitation of the chieftain, when Ivan Semenovich stepped forward and said:

“I want to tell Skolot the following. My friends and I are very much surprised that the heartfelt invitation has come only from Skolot himself. Why has Hartak not invited them in his turn? Is he not the son of Skolot? Does the glorious Hartak have some ill feeling toward us?”

It was a bold and at the same time subtle move. If Hartak extended an invitation to the strangers to be his guests, too, he would forfeit his right to do them any harm in the future. Age-old Scythian tradition forbade harming anyone who had been a guest in one’s home, and any violation of the tradition would be regarded as the most perfidious act imaginable.

As Skolot listened to the interpretation of this speech through the archeologist and Varkan, his face was clouded by a deepening frown. Artem was closely watching Hartak who seemed to try to hide among Skolot’s bodyguards. The misshapen Scythian at first made a move suggestive of his desire to flee the scene. But as that was impossible, he remained, his body hunched, his eyes shifting, afraid to meet the gaze of the strangers, especially that of Lida. Then Skolot began to speak, his voice sounding solemn and authoritative this time. As he finished he gave his son a meaningful look, and that proved sufficient.

Hartak began speaking in his turn, gesturing, bowing, an artificial smile fastened on. Even without the interpretation, it was clear that he was asking to forgive him for his belated invitation and that he invited the strangers to be his guests as well as the guests of his glorious and mighty father.

“We accept the invitation,” Ivan Semenovich said decorously. “We are glad to be the guests of Skolot and Hartak.” But an aside meant only for his friends followed:

“That’ll give us an excellent opportunity to find out answers to many of our questions.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The explorers go on a guided tour of the Scythian camp and find that riding horses is not an unimaginably difficult exercise; Artem is shocked to discover that scalps could be worn as signs of distinction; the explorers witness a tooth-pulling and metal forging in a smithy; the archeologist goes through an unfortunate experience; Ronis tells the story of the gold deposits; and finally, the author of the testament from the chest is discovered to be Ronis’s ancestor.

“Hasn’t Artem turned out to be quite a decent horseman?” Ivan Semenovich said jokingly.

“It’s not surprising in my case,” the young man replied in the same jesting vein. “I have been riding horses since childhood. You’d better take a look at Lida. Isn’t that some top class riding? She’s managing her horse as though she’s been doing it all her life!”

“Hey, you’ve forgotten to comment on my horsemanship!” said Dmitro Borisovich plaintively. “I’ve never ridden before, I can give you my word for it!”

“Ivan Semenovich, as it should naturally have been expected, has proved again to be our leader in riding exercises as well as in all other things. He surely looks capable of beating any Scythian in a riding competition,” Artem concluded the exchange of wisecracks. “Even our friend Varkan.”

Varkan, who was riding with the strangers, was glad to seize the opportunity to show how favorably disposed he was to them. He himself had volunteered to guide them around the Scythian camp. He had taken two of his friends, young warriors from Skolot’s troops, to accompany him. Varkan readily told the strangers about anything they wanted to know; he had even learnt several words of the strangers’ odd language from Artem.

The four explorers were riding the horses that had been presented to them by Skolot. Varkan had brought the horses to the strangers and advised who should take which horse. The black horse had been given with the spontaneous applause to Ivan Semenovich. But Artem was also quite happy to have a bay, graceful and very spirited horse. Lida and Dmitro Borisovich had received small, placid mares; nevertheless the archeologist had asked Varkan repeatedly and worriedly:

“Are you sure, my friend, that this animal will not let me down so to say? Are you sure it’s a quiet beast? You see, I would really hate to run into some complications with the horse, because until now my contact with these creatures was limited to observing them from a distance.”

It was only when Varkan confirmed for the umpteenth time that the mare was the most placid of the numerous horses in the great herd belonging to Skolot, that the archeologist consented to be helped onto it.

The Scythian camp excited great curiosity in the explorers. Everything they came across on their way seemed worthy of attention. There were tall and richly adorned kibitkas mounted on six-wheeled wagons which belonged to rich and high-born Scythians many of whom were sitting outside them surrounded by servants and slaves. There were smaller kibitkas that belonged to numerous hunters who traded hides and furs for food with the rich Scythians who owned large herds of horses. There were also small kibitkas swarming with poorly dressed slaves. In fact, from what the explorers had learnt, it followed that the social status of the ordinary Scythians was hardly different from that of the slaves; they had very few possessions — just their small kibitkas and a handful of house utensils. They toiled from early morning till late at night, trying to earn their living by tending cattle, hunting, and doing all the other menial work.

Only a very limited number of low-born young Scythians could win for themselves a different kind of life through personal bravery: they were chosen to serve in the ranks of Skolot’s warriors alongside the high-born Scythians. But, according to Varkan, they never cut the family ties that linked them to the poorer sections of the Scythian population. They kept their distance, staying away from the sons of the rich and elders; Varkan and his friends were among these “lucky” few. They avoided the haughty rich whenever they could. The behavior of Varkan and his two companions was a good illustration of this: every time the explorers stopped at the kibitkas of the rich, Varkan and the other two Scythians stayed some distance away, but were always at hand to join in conversation with the ordinary Scythians. The fact that Varkan and the likes of him were members of the chieftain’s troops allowed them to preserve a certain measure of independence, but it could be easily observed that the high-born and rich paid them back with feelings of ill will and contempt, frowning upon friendships of some of the young warriors with the Greek slaves.

The archeologist could not suppress his excitement which boiled over as the explorers progressed through the Scythian camp and the everyday life of the Scythians unfolded before him, a life of which he knew but little, whatever knowledge he had being based on the works of ancient Greek historians and evidence unearthed from the barrows. Varkan was showered with questions by Dmitro Borisovich who in his impatience left the Scythian very little time to answer his queries. Varkan was left alone only for short intervals when Dmitro Borisovich was overwhelmed by the desire to share his impressions with his friends.

“It’s fantastic! It’s unbelievably interesting!” he cried out, his eyes shining with excitement behind the lenses of his eyeglasses, his hand pushing his hat back. “You know, Artem, these Scythians seem to have preserved the social structure that was described by Herodotus so long ago! He said that the Scythians lived in many different tribes at various stages of social development, and hence they had different customs and life styles. Some of the tribes were only at the nomadic stage, while others had already attained the sophistication of grain growing. We have found ourselves, incidentally, with Scythians at the stage of nomads and hunters.”

“So what?” Artem said nonchalantly; he did not care very much for these fine historical and social distinctions.

“What do you mean ‘so what’?” the archeologist exclaimed. “This fact clarifies all the conflicting assumptions that have been put forward by the archeologists! For your information, Varkan says that there is another Scythian tribe living not far away that raises grain and trades with Skolot’s tribe. Isn’t that extraordinary? Oh, how I hope we have enough time to see everything there is to see and study it!”

Artem thought: ‘Enough time’ he says! It looks as if we’ll have all the time in the world to get to know and study the life of the Scythians! The way things are, there seems to be very little chance indeed of our being ‘able to return home…

But very soon his gloomy thoughts were swept away by the sight of the lively scenes in the Scythian camp. There was a wide road cutting through the camp and then turning to the forest, meandering among the huge trees with their pinkish leaves.

Most of the kibitkas and big six-wheel wagons were located on one side of the road; there were only narrow passages left between many of the kibitkas with pointed tops; at other places, bigger and more lavish kibitkas had more open space around them. Most such kibitkas belonged to the Scythian elders. They rested not on the ground but on cumbersome wagons with huge crude wheels. The kibitkas of ordinary Scythians, made of rough cloth, were rarely mounted on wagons; in most cases they were pitched directly on the ground. They outnumbered all others and were crowded close to one another.

There were bigger kibitkas of red felt situated some distance away from the rest. They belonged to the high-born Scythians; in fact, the red color was reserved for them only. A little way off, dozens of small kibitkas where the kinsmen of the high-born Scythians, their servants and slaves lived, clustered around the bigger ones.

Some of the bigger kibitkas were adorned with various charms and decorations. Colored strips of cloth were fastened to the tops and entrances. Their purpose was to chase away evil spirits. Bronze decorations were sewn onto the felt, mostly around the entrance. There were many ornamental dishes, plates and vases of different sizes and purposes inside the kibitkas. The richer the owner was, the more elaborate were his possessions.

Close to one of the kibitkas, Artem saw something that puzzled him: on a string leather attached to two poles were hanging what seemed to be very tiny pelts of different hues — black, whitish and red. What kind of animals could have supplied such tiny pelts?

Artem even turned his horse to ride over to the poles to give the pelts a closer look. Varkan immediately joined him, ready as always to offer his help in whatever problem might arise. Quite forgetting that Varkan could not understand him, Artem asked, pointing to the strange pelts with his hand:

“What animal did those pelts come from?”

Varkan looked where Artem was pointing and smiled; then, nodding his head he drew Artem’s attention to the bridle of his horse. To his great surprise Artem saw similar pelts there too.

“Oh, yes, the same kind! What are they?”

The intelligent Scythian did not need any interpretation: he raised his hand to the top of his head, moved his hand swiftly and circularly around it, and then jerked the hand upward as though tearing something off the head. Artem stared silently, failing to comprehend the explanatory gestures. Varkan repeated them, this time around Artem’s head. He even tugged Artem’s hair slightly and then immediately pointed to the shrivelled pelts on his bridle. A wide genial grin extended his lips.

Only then did it begin to dawn upon Artem what in fact the strange pelts were. But no, it couldn’t be true… He glanced once again at Varkan and then at the pelts. Then he called Dmitro Borisovich.

“What is it, my friend?” the archeologist called back.

“I’m not sure I’ve understood Varkan correctly,” Artem said quickly. “I’m very curious about these pelts. Judging from Varkan gestures, they are scalps! But how could that be?”

“Not only could that be, but they are scalps,” the archeologist said quietly. “Of course, Varkan would use a different word, but whatever the word is in the Scythian they are scalps all right!”

“Oh, my, how awful!” Artem cried out involuntarily.

“From his point of view there’s nothing awful about it, but quite the contrary, an honorable distinction. American Indians are the best known case of this tradition. Of course, the Scythians should be given an absolute priority here, and there’s no need whatsoever to look for any connections. The thing is that the Scythians had a custom of scalping their slain enemies. The scalps, attached to the bridle, were the evidence of the warrior’s manliness, intrepidity and cunning in battle. We see that this custom has been preserved in our tribe, and Varkan is proudly displaying his scalps. He may even be surprised that you don’t have any. He holds you in high esteem. I’ll ask him now what he thinks of that.”

The archeologist spoke to Varkan and the Scythian was quick to reply. Then he detached one of the scalps from the bridle and handed it to Artem.

“Oh, why is he doing that?” Artem asked in genuine surprise.

Dmitro Borisovich burst into laughter.

“Isn’t it wonderful! Varkan wants to make you a gift of one… err… pelt.”

“Why should he?”

“He says he’s got many of them and his friend Artem has none. He says it would look nice on the bridle of your horse. Ha-ha! Isn’t it extraordinary! Mind you: to give you this gift is a very noble thing for Varkan to do. Varkan is parting with an enemy scalp — a thing of great value to him! — in order to please his guest!”

“I can’t say I’m too pleased!”

“From the point of view of Varkan you should be. Now, you must make up your mind whether you accept or refuse it.”

“What am I going to do with it, Dmitro Borisovich?” Artem said. “I understand that for Varkan, it’s a sign of distinction, but why should I have it? Besides, my stomach turns wherever I look at this… scalp. No, I won’t take it.”

“But, mind you, Artem, that Varkan might take offense,” the archeologist said, this time quite seriously. “You are refusing a gift that has been offered you with the best intentions from the bottom of his heart.”

But Artem had already found a way out of the awkward situation:

“Tell Varkan, Dmitro Borisovich, that in our country… or whatever you would call it in your interpretation — there’s no such custom of wearing… err… pelts. So, I thank him very much but plead with him to attach it back where it belongs. Will that be a good enough excuse?”

“Let’s hope it will. I’ll translate what you’ve said to him.”

The explorers continued on their way through the Scythian camp. The more they saw, the more Dmitro Borisovich’s archeological enthusiasm grew. Could he, for example, even have dreamt, under any other circumstances of seeing a real Scythian tooth-puller at work?

They stopped at a kibitka where many people were gathered. The Scythians made way for the equestrians, abiding by Scythian custom: those on foot must always make way for riders, because anyone who was mounted was both literally and figuratively higher. The people at the kibitka did so in silence and rather glumly, but recognizing Varkan among the riders, greeted him cheerfully. This made Artem wonder once again why Varkan enjoyed such popularity among the ordinary Scythians.

A bearded old Scythian was kneeling before the kibitka. His hat was pushed far back on his head, and tears rolled from his eyes but he held his mouth open with resolve, clutching convulsively at the felt of the kibitka. Another Scythian, probably related somehow to the soothsayers as he was wearing a long woman’s dress and a short cloak with small plates of bronze sewn to it, was stooping over the older Scythian yanking at something in the man’s mouth with a huge pair of pliers. The sawbones’ face was bathed in sweat, large drops of which accumulated on his forehead, wrinkled in concentration and effort. The operation must have been going on for quite some time already, judging from the condition of both patient and doctor.

The “patient,” who continued to kneel with resignation, groaned and howled, supporting his chin with his hand from time to time. The “doctor” told him sharply, even savagely to hold still, pushing his head backward from time to time with his hand.

“Oh, what a terrible way to treat a man!” Lida cried out in indignation.

“But, my dear girl, progress in dentistry has left some of the principle things unchanged,” Ivan Semenovich protested. “In our dental clinics, with all their sophisticated equipment, you’d still have your tooth pulled out barbarious- ly with pliers of improved design no doubt, but pliers all the same. As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t make a great deal of difference whether the patient is sitting in some dentist’s chair or kneeling, or whether the pliers are nickel- plated or not. The operation of extracting a tooth seems to have remained basically unchanged for thousands of years.”

But Dmitro Borisovich, evidently impressed, was watching every movement of the tooth-puller closely. At last he cried out excitedly:

“It’s extraordinary! It’s the scene from the electrum vase found in the barrow of Kul-Oba come to life! The vase is decorated with the scenes of Scythians practising dentistry! And now I’m witnessing it all for real!”

^uAn electrum vase?” Artem said. “Are you sure you’ve used the right word? What does ‘electrum’ mean, Dmitro Borisovich? If you wanted to say ‘electric’ I don’t see how that could apply here either…”

“Of course I’m sure!” said the archeologist sharply. “Electrum — a natural alloy of silver and gold. Shame on you, a student of geology! You should know that, by the way!”

Artem only shrugged as if to say, he didn’t think he was supposed to know about electrum.

“This yanking of teeth you call ‘practising dentistry’?” Ivan Semenovich said sarcastically. “You express it much too delicately, my dear friend, even if we take into consideration your emotions concerning ‘electrum.’ I wonder how loud you’d screech if you were subjected to such a crude procedure…”

At that moment, something snapped inside the old man’s mouth, and the pliers produced a jagged piece of a tooth. Lida uttered a cry and turned away. The “doctor” examined the tooth fragment carefully and shook his head, evidently dissatisfied with the result, then pushed the patient who had already begun to rise, back to his knees, and once again thrust the pliers into the long-suffering “patient’s” mouth. The operation continued!

“I think I’ve had enough of this spectacle, my friends,” Ivan Semenovich exclaimed. “I’m quite fed up with it in fact. Let’s move on.”

He turned his horse around, looked into the distance and said:

“There’s something over there! Look at that party so blithely having their lunch!”

There were six Scythians sitting on the ground around a fire some distance away. They had taken off their leather and felt hats and put them on the ground and seemed quite oblivious to anything save their food. A large bronze cauldron was suspended over the fire; steam was rising from it. Every Scythian held a chunk of steaming boiled meat in his hand, and once in a while, tore off a large piece with his teeth, chewed with gusto, washing the meat down with oksugala drawn from a big vessel standing on the ground by the fire.

The Scythians were eating in silence, as though performing a sacred ritual. Varkan greeted them in a loud voice. All six Scythians raised their heads simultaneously and, recognizing Varkan, greeted him cordially in turn and invited him and his companions to share their meal. Varkan asked whether the strangers would like to stop for a while and join these people at their meal.

“Thank you for the invitation,” said Ivan Semenovich. “Unfortunately we’ll have to decline the invitation as we are pressed for time. Besides we’ve already had lunch. Thank you all the same.”

Dmitro Borisovich said pensively:

“Hospitable people, these Scythians! By the looks of them, these six men must be quite poor. I don’t think they eat meat very often, and yet they invited us to share their meal…”

Artem noticed that both the men and women they met on their way stared at Lida more than anybody else. No doubt, all the stranger men got their share of attention — the victory over Dorbatay that was still very fresh on people’s minds made the strangers the focus of interest. But the strange girl was by far the one who excited the greatest curiosity. Once in a while, a Scythian would stop dead in his tracks, gaping and staring at Lida, ignoring the rest of the company. Evidently, the reason for this was not that Lida was mounted: horsemanship of Scythian women was not inferior to that of men. So what was it that made the Scythians stare?

Artem told Lida about his observations. The girl’s reply was instantaneous:

“Oh, I believe it’s quite simple. The Scythian women always wear their hats or whatever you call them with the edges turned up, and I’m bareheaded.”

“So what?”

“In their eyes, my silly Artem, that’s like a good Moslem seeing an unveiled woman in the street. It’s unprecedented, don’t you see?”

“In other words, you look indecent, and that makes them mad. That’s not a good idea, Lida. Why don’t you put on a scarf or something? Or perhaps you don’t want to hide your golden curls from view, but would rather display them to their full advantage, eh?”

_f “Aren’t you silly! Why should I observe their stupid customs? I hate wearing anything on my head. Let them stare!”

Heavy, ringing sounds of metal striking against metal that grew louder as the cavalcade approached a small smithy stopped all the talk. A huge Scythian, naked to the waist and wearing a wide leather apron was hammering at a red- hot ingot.

It was a pleasure to watch his precise, measured and powerful movements. Reflections from the furnace played on his face, dripping with sweat. The tight rounded muscles bulged rhythmically under the shiny dark skin of his arms. There was a pile of small ingots by the furnace. The smith went on working, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the strangers.

Varkan was somewhat perplexed at the unusual interest the strangers exhibited toward the smith and his work which, in his eyes, could hold nothing that was worth paying attention to. His perplexity grew when Ivan Semenovich, evidently not satisfied with just watching, leapt down from his horse and went into the smithy. He walked over to the forge and picked up a cold ingot from the ground. He turned it in his hands, examining it in silence for some time. Then, nodding to the smith, who had stopped swinging his hammer and was staring in amazement at the strange visitor, Ivan Semenovich put the ingot down and walked back to his horse under the questioning gazes of his friends.

Ivan Semenovich leapt onto the horse with surprising agility, took the reins into his hand, looked at his companions, and said:

“I recalled our conversation about the insides of the Sharp Mount and the possibility of using the archeological evidence, related to the Scythians to determine whether the mount had any ore deposits. I have now discovered, Dmitro Borisovich, that those ingots are good bronze. It would be very useful to find out where the Scythians get their ore. If the deposits are anywhere nearby…”

“Yes, I’ll ask him right away!” the archeologist said and turned to Varkan with his question. Then he said hastily:

“Yes, the Scythians get their ore from a place not far from here. Varkan even suggests that we go there. If we wish, he’ll show us the mine.”

“Gladly,” the geologist said, gesturing for the Scythian to lead the way. Varkan turned his horse abruptly, leaned closer to its neck, and spurred it to a gallop. The explorers followed, having some problems keeping pace with him.

They galloped through the entire camp. Varkan was probably bored a little at having to wait all the time while his companions had stopped watching people at their everyday chores. Now he was glad to make up for it by riding fast.

Bending low over the horse’s neck, he rode at full speed. Ivan Semenovich gave his horse the rein with great pleasure; his mount not wanting to lag behind, also took off in a gallop. The other horses did the same without being urged by their riders. Truth to tell, Artem was a little apprehensive at first, but he was ashamed to show any signs of fear in front of his friends so he entrusted himself to his horse. Lida bit her lip, held fast to the reins, but did not try to slow down her sprightly mare.

It was only after some time that they realized Dmitro Borisovich had disappeared. They had already travelled far from the Scythian camp into the steppe with its pinkish- yellow grass high enough for a man to hide himself easily. Where indeed was Dmitro Borisovich? How had he managed to get lost?

“Varkan! Varkan!” Artem called out at the top of his voice. “Hold it!” He was short of breath after the swift gallop that made his flesh creep.

The Scythian reined in his horse, and as he turned his face presented a picture of vitality and joy. His eyes asked: what’s the matter?

“We’ve lost Dmitro Borisovich!” Artem shouted.

“Where is he now?” Ivan Semenovich said, looking around.

Varkan searched the steppe with his eyes, but the archeologist was nowhere to be seen.

“Dmitro Borisovich! Dmitro Borisovich!” they chorused.

In a moment, a hardly audible reply came:

“I’m over here…”

“Where is here?” Artem shouted at the top of his voice.

“Here… in the bloody steppe!”

“Come join us!”

“I can’t!”

’’Why?*’ Artem shouted peering in the direction from which the voice came. But there was no sign of the archeologist: only the flat plain with the grass, growing high and thick, undulating in the breeze.

“You’d better come to me!” Dmitro Borisovich called out again.

Artem turned to the geologist as if asking permission; Ivan Semenovich nodded his head to give the go ahead. Artem immediately turned the horse around and galloped back in the direction they had come from. What was the matter with the archeologist?

The first thing that Artem discerned in the high grass was the head of the archeologist’s mare. It appeared for a moment above the grass, looked at the approaching rider, and was gone again. The grass was so high that even a horse could be hidden entirely from view! In a moment, the face of Dmitro Borisovich himself popped into view. It was an angry face. When he began speaking, he sounded very much annoyed, giving Artem a piece of his mind.

“So that’s how you respect your elders?! You galloped away with no regard for what happened to me!”

“Dmitro Borisovich, I wasn’t the only one…”

“Oh, keep quiet when I’m speaking! This damned beast is not at all as placid as you tried to convince me. I wanted to stop her because she was going at neck-breaking speed. But do you think she gave any heed to my appeals? Not at all! She kept going after you like mad. I tried to stop her. I pleaded with her to calm down. I pulled on the reins with all my might… or maybe it was she who was pulling the reins… I can’t tell for sure now…”

Artem felt he was about to burst out laughing, but he realized that if he did not control himself, Dmitro Borisovich would take it as a great personal offense. That is why Artem, with great effort, preserved a serious face. The archeologist continued hotly:

“I did everything imaginable to stop her! I tried to slow Jier down by pressing her flanks with my legs, shouted to her to stop! But nothing happened! The damned beast was going like a thing possessed, and besides, she wanted to throw me off, she did! The whole time!”

“She did not want to throw you off, she was just.galloping!”

“Silence, young man! I know perfectly well what galloping is, I’ve seen lots of horses do it… in the movies.

Galloping is when a horse is moving at a measured pace and the rider moves rhythmically up and down in time with it in the saddle. Yes, I know these things well enough! But in this case, the brute was not galloping at all! How could I post rhythmically when the monster was trying the whole while to throw me over her neck? I tell you, she was!”

Artem had to turn away as he did not want the archeologist to see his face contort in his efforts to keep from laughing.

“At last I managed to get my hands around her neck, but to do it, I, naturally, had to let go of the reins! I didn’t think I needed them anyway. Then I lost the blanket that is used instead of a saddle here… There’s nothing funny.about it, Artem! It’s quite unmannerly and disrespectful, by the way, to laugh when somebody’s telling you about such an unfortunate experience!”

“I… am… not… laughing, Dmitro Borisovich! I’m listening to you with the greatest respect… It’s just that I’m short of breath after a fast ride, you know.”

“So, as I was holding the beast that had gone amok, by the neck, I made another attempt to stop her,” with these,words the archeologist shot a furious glance at the mare who was peacefully grazing a few steps away, munching loudly on the lush grass. “I shouted right into her ear, ‘Halt, damn you!’ And what do you think she did?”

“She stopped?”

“Oh, how did you guess?” the archeologist asked suspiciously. “Yes, she did stop, but in what manner?”

Artem did not understand what Dmitro Borisovich meant.

“The damned beast did not stop all of her, so to say, at once. At first her front part stopped… Yes, yes, that’s how it was! I remember it very well! And her hind part kept on galloping in the mean time!”

“But that’s impossible!”

“But I’m telling you the hind part kept on galloping!

I can’t tell you for sure though for how long it continued in this manner because at some point, I was kicked up into the air by this bucking hind part, and sailed over the front part that was firmly standing on the ground. It’s a wonder I didn’t brake any bones when I landed! Only then did the mare stop completely, entirely, so to say… Oh, what has come over you?”

Artem was bent over almost double, leaning against the horse’s neck and shaking in uncontrollable fits of laughter. He was aware that it was so impolite to be laughing at someone else’s misfortunes, that his mirth, enjoyed at the expense of such a respectable person as Dmitro Borisovich,was absolutely unpardonable, and yet he could not control himself.

“Cut out that laughing, young man! I personally do not see anything funny in the situation. Will you please stop!”

At last, Artem regained control of himself and stopped laughing. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he tried to put on a serious expression:

“Why didn’t you join us afterward, when we began calling you?”

The archeologist glanced angrily at Artem above his glasses:

“Ha, do you imagine it is so easy to talk this beast into allowing me to remount? She flatly refuses! I’ve been pleading with her all this time! But she won’t even allow me to get close to her! And all of you told me how placid and manageable she was!”

“You should have taken the reins, and she would have followed you wherever you wanted to go.”

“Try for yourself. Incidentally, she’s got teeth, and on the other end she can kick you with her hind legs. And if you approach her from the flank, there’s nothing to grab on to…”

Artem was about to be overcome with a new wave of laughter, but to succumb to it would mean mortally offending the annoyed archeologist. So he silently jumped down from his horse, came over to the archeologist’s mare, took her reins, and walked her over to Dmitro Borisovich.

“Now you can mount. I’ll hold her.”

The archeologist glanced at the young man suspiciously: wasn’t he being a bit too careless in handling the horse? But as their friends were already impatiently calling, there was no more time to be lost. Throwing himself awkwardly astride the mare’s back, Dmitro Borisovich wiggled his way to a sitting position. In a moment they were riding quietly side by side. The archeologist was silent, from time to time glancing mistrustfully at his mount trotting along smoothly and sedately, and at Artem who seemed completely absorbed in thoughts of his own. At last, Dmitro Borisovich heaved a sigh, as though he was about to confess something and said:

“It seems to me, Artem, that our discussion of the little… errr… incident, involving… my horse, was, so to say, of a strictly confidential nature, and it’s probably not worthwhile… to tell our friends the details… Do you think it’s unreasonable?”

“Oh no, it’s not, it’s not unreasonable at all, Dmitro Borisovich!”

“I’m very glad you think that way. I knew from the start that you would immediately recognize the impropriety of informing them of the details… Could we say that I was delayed because of… well, because of…”

Artem searched his mind for a convincing reason that could have accounted for the archeologist’s falling behind:

“Say, you’ve had to stop because the horse’s belly-band — the one that holds the blanket on the horse’s back in place — was loose, and so it had to be tightened. That’s something a person without a previous experience would hardly be able to do single-handedly, and so, I was only too glad to help.”

“Yes, that’s what it was, exactly. I was just about to mention that… errr… band,” the archeologist said, pleased with the explanation. “There’s one more thing… err… a personal request. Why should we go at such a break-neck speed? What’s the hurry? What will we miss if we go a bit slower? All this galloping only makes you short of breath…”

“All right, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said. He realized that the highly strung archeologist should be given a chance to compose himself.

They rode over to their friends who had been waiting rather impatiently for them. Artem gave them, in a few words, the invented reason that had supposedly held the archeologist back; Dmitro Borisovich shot anxious glances ₍at Artem, evidently somewhat worried that the young man would not be able to check himself and would reveal the actual reason for the delay. But everything went off without a hitch, and the group started on its way. Now they were moving much slower, and soon enough Dmitro Borisovich regained some of his composure. He even began interpreting the explanations of Varkan who pointed to the slope of the hill situated close to the steep cliff the cavalcade was approaching.

“Here, on this slope, the Scythians mine their ore. It is taken from the open pit in baskets. The metal is smelted not far from here. All the work is supervised by Varkan’sfriend, Ronis, the very man who attracted our attention on our first day here.”

As they drew nearer to the slope, they could discern pairs of people carrying big baskets of ore to a fair-sized furnace in a large hole in the ground. Black smoke was billowing from the chimney; the smoke was so heavy it sank low and spread over the ground.

“Only slaves and a few Scythians work here,” Dmitro Borisovich translated. “A sample of the ore will be brought to us in a moment. I’ve asked Varkan to bring some especially for you, Ivan Semenovich.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Varkan also says that he has sent for Ronis. It may be of some interest to talk to him. Varkan says that Ronis is well versed in matters of mining.”

Ivan Semenovich, whose curiosity was thoroughly aroused, looked around, taking in all the details. An ordinary hill, by the looks of it. Jagged rocks on the cliffs beyond… Aha, the pre samples had arrived. High-grade ore of good quality… hut with other metals in it; the experienced eye of the geologist immediately discerned all this. That’s why they smelted bronze from this copper ore which also has some tin or antimony, zinc or lead… The bronze was of quite a decent quality. But…

Ivan Semenovich turned to Dmitro Borisovich:

“Everything is clear as far as the bronze is concerned, Dmitro Borisovich. But another question arises…”

“What is that?”

“To the best of my knowledge — a geologist’s knowledge, not that of an archeologist, of course — the Scythians lived in the Iron Age, not the Bronze Age; is that correct?”

“Yes, you’re right, Ivan Semenovich. Iron was widely used by the Scythians, and in fact, Scythian culture as we know it was formed after the complete preeminence of iron over bronze.”

“That’s what I thought. But this tribe is using bronze, not iron. And here we see them digging for copper ore. So, the question is: why do the Scythians we’ve encountered here make and use bronze, not iron?”

« Dmitro Borisovich pulled at his beard indecisively, evidently at a loss, not being able to provide an immediate answer.

“Why indeed?” the archeologist said pensively. “No doubt, bronze arrowheads, helmets, and ornaments and copper cauldrons and so on were still used after bronze was superceded by iron, the metal favored by Ares, the god of war. But even though bronze was still used, it did not determine the overall picture of that age; the Age was decidely that of Iron. You’re absolutely correct in this respect, my dear Ivan Semenovich. But in apparent contradiction to this fact, our Scythians are making bronze…”

“We have not seen anything made of iron at all, so far,” the geologist said.

“No, we haven’t, and that’s very strange… But I have an idea, Ivan Semenovich!” Dmitro Borisovich said, his eyes shining with the excitement of a possible solution that had dawned upon him. “What if our Scythians, who already knew how to use iron, found themselves cut off from the rest of the world in this… errr… cave, and had to go back to using bronze? What do you say to that?”

“Why should they? Just because they wanted to? I don’t quite follow you, Dmitro Borisovich.”

“In fact, it’s quite simple. Our Scythians are living in a sort of a cave, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Or anyway, that’s what we think this place is. So, what follows from this fact?”

“What follows? They searched for deposits of iron ore in this spacious but nevertheless limited cavity and failed to find any. But they discovered copper ore. Do you see my point now? And cut off as they were from the rest of the world, they could do nothing else but start using bronze again!”

Whether it was really the case or not, the idea put forward by Dmitro Borisovich was not lacking in logical premise and gave the geologist something to ponder.

“All right,” he said after some time. “We’ll have to accept this as a starting hypothesis.”

“I think it can be promoted from the status of a hypothesis to the one of a discovery. At least, that’s what the facts tell us,” Dmitro Borisovich said rather heatedly, already persuaded by his own idea.

Ivan Semenovich said cautiously:

“In any case, we’ll have plenty of time to find out the actual reason!”

“But will we ever be able to tell anyone of our great discoveries?” Artem said in a low voice. The mining area they were visiting with its steep cliffs close by reminded him of the fact that they had wandered into the oddest of places, cut off from the rest of the world, deep under the ground… so very deep… and so far away from normal life!

“Why are you so pessimistic, Artem?” Lida said with gentle reproach in her voice. “You don’t believe we’ll get back to the surface?”

Artem did not reply; he did not know what to say — this pessimistic assessment of the situation had escaped his lips quite against his will. But Lida’s attention at that moment switched to something else.

Hooves beating on the ground could be heard, and r.s they turned they saw a man riding toward them on a strange shaggy horse. It was Ronis, the first person they had heard speak Greek here.

The dark-haired, beardless Ronis, supervisor of the mining, cut a strange figure among the bearded Scythians. The explorers recalled that Ronis was a descendant of those Greeks who had been captured by the Scythians so long before. Consequently, he was a slave by his status. But neither his manners nor his speech revealed this. There was no subservience in either his behavior or his eyes that looked boldly straight into the eye of the person he was addressing. A polite smile played on his cleanly-shaven face; it seemed to emphasize that he, a descendant of the enslaved Greeks, practically a slave himself, knew his own worth and refused to toady to anyone.

Ronis bowed ceremoniously to the strangers and greeted Varkan in a very friendly manner. The two of them immediately fell into conversation. It could be easily deduced from the way they talked that they were long-time friends who did not have to use many words to reach an understanding; they obviously trusted each other completely. Ronis was listening to Varkan, his head slightly bent, glancing up at the strangers once in a while. His observant eyes moved from one figure to another. He gazed at Lida, but when he met Lida’s eyes, he moved on to look at Dmitro Borisovich. Though the moment of eye-contact was short, Lida could see that the gaze was friendly and interested.

Varkan stopped talking, and Ronis replied in a few words; then Ronis addressed Dmitro Borisovich, but his eyes kept moving from one stranger to another, as though he wanted to demonstrate that his words were addressed to all of them. He was speaking with a flowing ease, not stopping to grope for words. All his manners showed that he considered himself equal to the people he was talking to.

The well-constructed Greek phrases made the archeologist iorget for some time that he had to interpret what was being said for his friends. The Greek’s speech was so smooth and clear that it seemed no interpretation was needed for them to comprehend it. But then Dmitro Borisovich remembered that his friends did not understand a word and began interpreting:

“It’s a great pleasure for me to tell the wise and learned strangers about my work. I’ll consider it an honor if I can be of service. In case our honored guests wish to see the mining of ore at a closer range, I’d bid them follow me and will gladly provide all the necessary explanations and details.”

The tour of the mining pits did not take long. Surprising as it might seem, Dmitro Borisovich was more interested than Ivan Semenovich. But could an experienced twentieth- century geologist really be that interested in primitive methods of mining ore two thousand years out of date! Ivan Semenovich carefully noted only the directions and the thickness of the ore veins, but Dmitro Borisovich was fascinated by everything he saw: hammers, pickaxes, spades, the slaves’ clothes — in fact no detail, no matter how insignificant, escaped the archeologist’s attention. Artem heard the disappointed sighs that the archeologist heaved at regular intervals — all the sighs were of equal duration and expressed equal regret.

^uOh, if only I had my camera with me! How could I have lost it in that damned cave!”

But as there was no camera to take pictures with, and Dmitro Borisovich wished he could spend much longer time making drawings of all the exciting things he saw, in his notepad.

Artem watched the excited archeologist, but his thoughts were elsewhere: Why did the name “Ronis” sound so familiar? It certainly did ring a bell… But where had I heard it?

Meanwhile, they returned to the place where they had met Ronis earlier. The explorers asked him to tell them a little about himself; he began speaking — again in his reserved and quiet manner — but a melancholy note could now be discerned in his voice.

“I was born here,” his story ran, “among the Scythians. But I know from the story passed down in our family from one generation to another that my ancestors were captured by the Scythians in the town of Olvia after a battle in which the Greeks were defeated. The Scythians enslaved the captives. All the descendants of those captives have been kept in slavery ever since.”

Varkan, who had been listening to Ronis all this time, looked up and said, chuckling:

“You mention it as though there was something extraordinary unjust or unusual in it. If it had been my ancestors who had been captured by the Greeks, they would have been enslaved, as was indeed the case with many Scythians.”

Then they abruptly began speaking Scythian, evidently arguing about something. Dmitro Borisovich decided to use the break in his interpreting duties to express some of his opinions:

“Varkan, no doubt, has the point here. It’s absolutely clear that the Scythians were captured by the Greeks in far greater numbers than the other way round, and they had to live in slavery under much harsher conditions. We have historical evidence of almost constant rioting among the Scythian slaves in the Greek colonies. The Greeks tried to squeeze everything they could from the slaves that had been captured in the coastal areas of the Black Sea… and most of these slaves were the Scythians.”

“Of course the slaves were always revolting! In view of what they had to go through what else was there for them to do but revolt?” Artem said passionately; he could not remain silent when anyone was talking about oppression. Lida gave his sleeve a sharp tug as if to say: don’t interrupt!

“About two thousand years ago,” Dmitro Borisovich went on, bent on another of his impromptu lectures, “there was a massive revolt of the Scythian slaves led by a slave named Savmak. They even managed to seize power in one of the Greek Black Sea coastal towns. The Greeks had to call in additional troops to put down the uprising. There’s quite a lot to be said in relation to our subject concerning the Bosporian Kingdom, and the independent Greek city-states. And I can assure you that much of it will not be in favor of the Greeks! Some time later, remind me to tell you all about it: there are so many exciting stories from that period… Aha, our friends have begun speaking Greek again, evidently for our benefit.”

But Varkan and Ronis continued their argument, now in Greek. At last the Scythian cried out in a temper:

“Ronis, I don’t understand one thing and now I want to find out the answer. Tell me, why do you have anything to do with Dorbatay? I know you very well; I know things about you no one else does. We share a lot, and if Dorbatay learnt about it we’d be in trouble, right?”

Ronis nodded his head: make sure we would. Varkan continued:

“But Dorbatay always looks daggers at me, because he’s my enemy and he knows it, and knows that I know it. Our enmity is mutual. I know you regard him as an enemy as well, so why do you seem to be in his good graces? Surely not because of your good looks? Can you explain his favor-.able attitudes toward you?”

Ronis smiled bitterly and said:

“Oh yes, Dorbatay pretends to be friendly with me. But of course it’s not, as you put, on account of my good looks. Neither does he harbor any good feelings for me as a person.”

“What is it then?” Varkan persisted.

Ronis’s eyes flashed with anger.

“All right then, I’ll tell you. It’s not the first time you’ve reproached me because Dorbatay is friendly towards me. But I’ll tell you frankly what’s behind it. You must know that I buy his friendship. I need it to go on with my work… you know which… without any hindrance. I’m prepared to sacrifice my very life to achieve what I’ve set out to do. You know that, too. But to reach this goal I must have as much freedom as I can possibly get. So I buy it from the old soothsayer.”

“I don’t quite get you, Ronis!”

“All right, I’ll explain. There’s a legend about one of my distant ancestors that has been passed down from father to son. I heard it from my father. I’ll tell it to you if you care to listen.

“Long ago, I’m not sure when, how many generations back, one of my forebears found gold deposits in the mountains. Gold nuggets you didn’t even have to dig for. You could just pick them up off the ground! Imagine — collecting nuggets of pure gold under your feet! There was so much of gold that one man or even several people could not collect all of it even if they worked all their lives. But my ancestor did not tell anybody about the gold. He kept his secret. Only his elder son knew of it, and my ancestor decreed that his secret should be passed from generation to generation through elder sons only. That’s how I learnt it. Some of the deposits are no good any longer though…”

“All the nuggets have been carried away?”

“No. Those deposits are no good for a different reason. You see, my ancestor found two separate locations of gold deposits: one is very rich and the other has considerably smaller amounts of gold. I’m working at the smaller one. But even there I get enough gold to keep the soothsayer happy when I give it to him for his treasury. In this way I buy my freedom. The old soothsayer has learnt somehow that I’m the only person who knows the location of the deposits, and as he wants to continue to receive his regular allotment of gold, he does not interfere with my activities. And there’s enough gold there to last my whole lifetime, even should I live three hundred years! Old Dorbatay would, of course, want to find out exactly where I get my gold. But he is convinced that I won’t tell him. He’s already seen that even torture won’t allow him to get anything out of me.

“How do you know he’s convinced? And what do you mean by torture?” Varkan asked.

Without a word, Ronis pulled up the wide sleeve of his coat-like garment and rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing long deep scars just above the elbow, as though the flesh had been cut from his arm in strips.

“That’s how Dorbatay tried to find out and how he was convinced I wouldn’t tell him anything. When he saw that I’d rather die than divulge anything, he let me go on condition that I’d bring him a certain amount of gold every week. Oh, he did try to have me followed, but nothing came of that either. I took the necessary precautions. So this gold is my only weapon now, and I won’t let go of it. I must live because of the goal I have to attain. You know that goal, don’t you, Varkan?”

He fell silent. Varkan grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard in an outburst of emotion.

“Don’t be cross at me, my friend,” he said impulsively. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in any way! I surely did not mean to! And I’m also sorry for reminding you of things you’d rather not bring up. But you must agree that sooner or later, it would have been discussed.”

“I’m not angry with you, Varkan, and it’s good we’ve talked about these things at last. Only it’s unfortunate that we’ve taken so much of our guests’ time!”

“Oh, that’s perfectly all right! It was most informative to listen to you,” Dmitro Borisovich protested vehemently. “There’s even one more thing that we’d like very much to find out if you don’t mind talking about it.”

“Go ahead, ask your question,” Ronis said. “You’ve already learnt almost too much anyway.”

“Why are you using only the smaller of the deposits? What about the other one which is, as you say, much richer?”

“The richer one has been cut off by a rockfall. It’s impossible to get through to it. No one even knows, in fact, where to look. The last person who knew the exact location was my ancestor who discovered it. He charted the way to it in his will which he left sealed in a cave. But the cave is unaccessible now as it’s cut off by the same rockfall.”

This piece of information gave Dmitro Borisovich a jolt: a will in a walled-off cave, access to which had been cut off by a rockfall!

Ronis continued his story:

“But, as I’ve said, there’s enough gold for me in the smaller deposits. Should Dorbatay ever find the will — I don’t know exactly where the richer deposits are! — he would never be able to find the gold anyway. I’ll see to that! Besides, there’s a good guarantee that none of us will ever find it.”

“Why?” Ivan Semenovich asked seriously and pensively.

“I know for sure that my ancestor had to go a very long way to get to them, and to do so, he had to go beyond these mountains,” and Ronis pointed to the cliffs. “Now it is absolutely impossible to get to the other side of them through the underground passages, as they have been sealed off by rockfalls, and the mountains are too high for anyone to climb!”

Naturally, Artem thought. These are not mountains but the walls of this gigantic subterranean cavity, and at some point they must begin to curve inwards and continue to form the roof of the cave.

Ivan Semenovich was listening to the translation of what Ronis was saying with great attention: the Greek’s story quite unexpectedly turned out to be of great significance. Then he put his own question to the Greek:

“Is Ronis your real name? I’ve got the feeling something’s missing from it. I dare say that Pronis would sound better to my ear!”

Dmitro Borisovich could not suppress some nervous excitement translating this question, which was seemingly beside the point, but the intent of which was all too clear both to him and the rest of the explorers. Ronis — Pronis, the names were almost identical! Were the explorers on the threshold of the discovery that would enable them to solve the mystery put before them by the chest that had been discovered in the walled-off cave?

Ronis answered without any hesitation as if speaking about something of no importance whatsoever:

“Ronis and Pronis are the names that are traditionally given to the males of our family. The tradition runs many generations into the past. The names alternate from one generation to the other. In fact, Pronis was the name of my ancestor who discovered the gold deposits. His son was named Ronis. His grandson was Pronis, and so on down the line. My father’s name is Pronis, and my son, if I have one, would be called Pronis. That’s our family tradition and it must remain unchanged.”

Artem held his breath — everything fell into place: there was no reason to doubt that the man who had put down the cryptic words on the parchment they found in the chest was Ronis’s ancestor! Ronis’s story threw so much light on the text of the parchment and its directions as to how to get to the gold deposits! Oh Pronis, you could not ever have imagined what turbulent events would follow the discovery of your testament!

CHAPTER SIX

Varkan invites the explorers to take part in a hunt, then exhibits almost a supernatural skill in the spear throwing but puts himself in a situation that requires immediate action from Artem; Lida discerns certain changes in Artem and urges him to drink oksugala mixed with blood; the archeologist is annoyed to learn that he has missed an anthropologically important ceremony.

They were already in sight of the nomadic Scythian camp, when Dmitro Borisovich who had been talking with Varkan, stopped his horse, raised his hand to attract attention and said:

“My friends, Varkan has an exciting proposal. It seems our young people will especially appreciate this, although Ivan Semenovich and I would surely like to participate in it some way, too. Do you want to hear what it is?”

“Of course!” Artem responded immediately.

“Varkan said, give or take a word, the following: ‘Wouldn’t my young friend’ — that is you, Artem — ‘like to take part in a wild boar hunt? Yesterday some of my friends and I discovered the trail a large boar takes to get to his watering place. Skolot would be happy to treat his guests to an (excellent meal of roast boar. He told me to hunt down that boar after the guests had seen everything else they wanted to see. So, if my young friend wants to take part in the — hunt…’”

, “Am I not young enough to be invited?” Lida said somewhat piqued.

“Oh, I’m sure the invitation extends to you as well,”

Dmitro Borisovich said and turned to Varkan to verify it. Varkan began nodding his head in glad affirmation the moment he heard the archeologist’s question, and looked at the girl, his eyes radiating happy welcome, the unexpected ardor of which made Lida feel a little embarrassed.

“It seems to me that Varkan fancies Lida at least as much as our Artem does,” the archeologist said, smiling archly. “Oh, don’t blush, my dear girl, it is only natural. He’s a very courteous and hospitable man… The only thing I’m a little worried about is that it might lead, inadvertently, you know, to some… err… discord. You remember, my friends, that Hartak also tried in his manner to woo Lida, and Varkan is not entirely indifferent either. But I’ve had ample opportunity to observe that there’s another young man, a twentieth-century young man and our fellow countryman at that, who is not going to let himself to be pushed aside in this matter…”

“Dmitro Borisovich!” two voices cried out in a synchronized protest. “That’s not funny!”

“All right, all right, so it’s not. But what should I tell Varkan: do you accept his invitation?”

“Of course we do!”

“I’d be very happy to join him!”

“That leaves the two of us, Ivan Semenovich. What are we going to do? As a matter of fact, there’s another invitation from Skolot — to have a look at some of his treasures. I must tell you frankly that I’d rather see the treasures than ride through God knows where in the forest searching for that boar. I’m not much of a hunter, you know. But Skolot’s treasures must be a sight worth seeing. So, Ivan Semenovich, what’s your decision?”

“I think I’m with you,” the geologist said. “Viewing Skolot’s treasures seems to me to be a more worthwhile pastime. What about you, Lida?”

Lida was of two minds: on the one hand it would be very interesting to see the treasures, but on the other, it would be so exciting to take part in the hunt, especially after such a cordial invitation. The treasures could be looked at some other day, whereas the hunting of the kind offered by Varkan could be a unique occasion! Having made up her mind on this point, she said:

“I’d rather join Artem if I could…”

“Artem… and Varkan? Oh, don’t take my remarks seriously,” Dmitro Borisovich said, laughing. “Good, everything is settled then. Now we part company. Ivan Semenovich and I will go back, and you’ll go with Varkan to the hunt. There’s one problem though: how will you communicate?”

“Oh, we’ll find the way. Besides there’ll be hardly any time for talking,” Artem replied in a light tone. “At a hunt one is supposed to act, not talk.”

“Are we going to have any weapons with us?” Lida asked, seeing that Varkan and his friends were armed with spears, bows and short swords, whereas neither Artem nor Lida had anything worthy of being called a weapon.

“The closest approximation to a weapon I have on me is this,” Artem said, pulling a small penknife out of his pocket. “But it’ll hardly be of any use in the boar hunt.” Seeing from their gestures what their problem was, Varkan made a sign to the two Scythians accompanying him. They rode closer, took off their swords and belts and handed them to Artem and Lida. Artem deftly girded himself with the belt from which a sword was dangling. Lida took a while, for the belt was too long and had to be wound twice around her slender waist. Meanwhile, Varkan was speaking to Dmitro Borisovich.

“Varkan says,” the archeologist translated, “that the swords have been given to you not because there will be.any real danger but just in case. He also wanted to provide you both with a bow and a quiverful of arrows, and spears too. But I told him you were not very proficient with bow and spear. Was I right? Incidentally, Lida, you look great with that sword at your side! A veritable Amazon on horseback, and of such a martial bearing that the boar will be mortally frightened from the very sight of you!”

“Oh, aren’t you the flatterer today!” the girl said, pretending annoyance. But truth to tell, she did enjoy the feeling of resting her hand on the hilt of the sword. What a pity Dmitro Borisovich had lost his camera!

, “Attention!” Artem cried out unexpectedly. “Mind my commands! Swords out!”

•. His sword flashed in the air.

“Swords into action!”

And Artem, in fulfilment of his own command, began brandishing his sword wildly. But Lida did not join him in this martial display.

“There’s no one here to be attacked with a sword, so sheath your weapon, commander,” Lida said, casting a sidelong glance at Varkan: was the Scythian laughing derisively at Artem’s prank? But the Scythian was only smiling con- descendedly.

“You should conserve your energy, Artem,” Ivan Semenovich said, chuckling. “Look, it’s time for you to start.”

Varkan raised his hand in an inviting gesture. Artem rather reluctantly sheathed his sword.

“All right, I’ll wait to use it against the big game.”

The explorers parted company: Ivan Semenovich, the archeologist, and one of the Scythians started for the camp. The rest, with Varkan at the head, galloped across the steppe toward the forest.

Artem rode beside Lida, enjoying the sight of her on horseback: she was in complete and graceful control of her mount. Her auburn hair streamed in the air; her grip on the reins was firm; she evidently enjoyed riding fast. The high, yellowish-pink grass lashed their knees as their steeds did their best to keep pace with the great stallion of Varkan. Varkan looked back to see where Lida and Artem were, and noting that they were so close, he nodded his head approvingly. Artem shouted to Lida above the noise of their swift movement:

“Where did you learn to ride so well? I didn’t know you’d ever been on a horse before!”

“Oh, I learnt to ride long before you did in any case,” the girl replied with a note of challenge in her voice. “I passed my exam at the riding academy two years ago!”

“Ah, you did, did you,” was all Artem could say.

They were now close to the forest, and at one point the high grass shortened to normal size so abruptly that it gave the impression of having been trimmed. There was a depression in the ground that extended along the forest’s edge and was covered with a thick carpet of fragrant, low yellowish-pink grasses. Varkan shouted something, raised his spear high into the air and made a 90° turn.

“What’s he up to?”

The horses of Lida and Artem, trained as they were to follow the leader, also turned after Varkan. Artem began looking around: had the hunt already started? But where was the boar in that case?

“There’s a hare over there! A hare!” Lida shouted.

Varkan, leaning low over his horse’s neck, was pursuing a hare; the small gray animal, long ears laid back, was trying to escape into the forest, running a frantic course, making long and unexpected leaps.

Varkan won’t be able to catch up with the hare, Artem thought. Besides, it’s just quite impossible to spear a running hare at full gallop with such a flimsy weapon as a spear!

But Varkan, apparently, was of a different opinion. Still holding the spear high, he was waiting only for the hare to align himself for an instant with his horse’s path. When that happened, the Scythian hurled his spear with great force. The thin shaft trembled as though wiggling through the air in search of the target as it plummeted down in a smooth curve. The hare continued running, his ears laid back. As he was about to leap, the spear struck him, piercing him through and pinning him into the ground. The shaft quivered, sticking up at a sharp angle above the low grass.

Lida turned to Artem:

“It’s just unbelievable! Have you ever seen anything like that?!”

“Never,” Artem said.

The precision of this spear throwing was quite bewildering, verging on magic. Artem remembered reading about Australian aborigines who could hit a moving target with a cleverly thrown boomerang at considerable distances; about lassoing horses — lasso uncoiling and getting its noose around the horse’s neck as though all by itself; about Spaniards — or were they Mexicans? — who could throw a knife and hit a man at a distance of several paces. But all of these stunts were nothing in comparison to the extraordinary precision in spear throwing he had just witnessed. To hit a wildly zigzagging hare from a galloping horse at a distance of twenty meters! If somebody had told Artem it was possible, he wouldn’t have believed it. But he had just witnessed the feat with his own eyes!

Varkan, meanwhile, had ridden up to the hare, pulled the spear from the ground, removed the hare and fixed it to his belt. Artem and Lida watched the Scythian’s every movement, entranced by his dexterity. Had Varkan hurled his spear into the clouds in the heavens above, and it had brought down a big bird, even then it wouldn’t have surprised them more. This exploit had showed them what a fine hunter Varkan was!

The Scythian could not help seeing the great impression he had made on his companions. He smiled and waved his arm in the direction of the forest as if to say: that’s where the real hunt will take place.

The forest welcomed the riders with pleasant, cool air.

Varkan was confidently leading the way deeper and deeper into the woods past trees and big bushes. At first, the trees around them were similar to pines, with straight trunks, emitting an agreeable smell, but with needles much too long and soft to be ordinary pines. After some time, they gradually gave way to some kind of deciduous trees with thick, tall trunks resembling oaks. The ground level began to fall perceptibly, and the air became more and more humid. Several spots were rather boggy. Observing the water squishing under the horses’ hooves, Lida said:

“A river or some kind of marsh must be nearby. That’s probably where the watering place is.”

At last Varkan stopped his horse and turned, making a universally understood gesture for silence and caution. From then on, the riders had to move in total silence, watching every step. Varkan was constantly on the alert; once in a while, he bent over, probably looking for tracks. Some more minutes of high tension — and Varkan leaped down from his horse with his usual ease, making very little noise. Then, with a gesture, he invited Lida and Artem to dismount. His face showed great concentration: he was listening to the Rarely audible sounds which only he knew how to interpret. The other Scythian, meanwhile, tethered the horses to the trees. Varkan told him something in a low voice and then past a glance at Artem. Artem guessed that from now on they should redouble their caution; he put his hand over the mouth as if sealing it. Varkan nodded his head approvingly, and started forward carefully picking his way among the bushes. His companions followed him, doing their best to move as noiselessly and carefully as he did.

An expanse of water sparkled some way ahead. It turned put to be a small pond, its banks overgrown with tall grass. Several oak-like trees extended their boughs and branches over the water pond’s dreamy, mirror-flat surface.

Varkan signalled them to stop. He himself walked down to the waterfront, and stooped over, looking for something on the ground. Even Artem could see that some heavy animal had left tracks and trampled down grass and bushes all around. Had all these traces been left by their boar?

Varkan turned and walked back from the waterfront, moving along the tracks, but never stepping on them. He took the dead hare from his belt and put it across the tracks.

Then he looked Lida and Artem squarely in the face as though assessing their ability to understand him without words. Deciding, evidently, that they were bright enough to get his message he began explaining with gestures what was to take place soon. The young Scythian would have made a good actor — his gestures, combined with the appropriate expressions on his face, gave a very graphic and vivid description of what would happen during the hunt:

The boar would appear from the bushes, going along his old tracks. He would see the hare, stop, and begin to tear it to pieces. Varkan would throw his spear and kill the boar…

It was all quite understandable. But what were Lida and Artem supposed to do all this time? Varkan explained that too: he pointed to a tall tree and motioned that they were to climb it and stay there. Artem immediately responded with an indignant grimace: wasn’t he going to take direct part in the hunt? Was he just to climb that tree and watch, nothing more?! What had they been given the swords then for? But Varkan kept pointing unremittingly at the tree, his face going stern. He gave a final gesture and then turned his attention to the sounds of the forest.

Artem also began to discern some peculiar noises: a large animal was moving heavily through the bushes, breathing sonorously, trampling the underbush and leaves.

There was no time to lose; Artem helped Lida up a tree, getting the girl onto a bough almost completely obscured from the ground by the pinkish-yellow leaves. In a few seconds, Artem climbed another tree, perching himself on a branch almost directly above the boar’s tracks with the hare lying across them. Varkan and the other Scythian hid themselves too; it took Artem some time to locate Varkan behind a thick tree trunk, ready to put his spear into action.

The heavy breathing and noise of snapping twigs drew closer, but the beast was not in a hurry; neither was he careful to conceal his movements; evidently, he did not expect any enemies on his way. Artem then recalled reading that boars were the masters of the forests as they were very powerful animals, no less dangerous than larger predators. So the hunt would surely be all the more exciting for the danger!

Artem’s grip on the sword’s hilt grew tighter and tighter; his eyes turned in the direction the ominous sounds were coming from. If only he had a gun with him now! He’d have demonstrated his marksmanship! But he did not have one, so, there was nothing for him to do but observe what would take place on the ground.

Finally, the boar appeared, pushing his elongated reddish snout through the undergrowth; the head had beady red eyes, and long, curving yellowish tusks sticking out of the lower jaw. The boar began sniffing loudly at something, and looking around worriedly. Did he sense some danger or did he smell something that made him look around?

Artem’s eyes were glued to the boar: what a magnificent specimen he was! The powerful body with bulging muscles was about five feet long; it was covered rather sparsely with long coarse hairs, but the head had short thick bristle all over. The boar continued making growling, discontented sounds.

“Ah, if only I had a gun!” Artem whose dormant hunter’s instinct had been suddenly roused, murmured to himself.

The boar saw the hare, stopped and began making even more menacing sounds as he sniffed at it. The decisive moment came.

Without turning his head, from the corner of his eye, Artem saw Varkan slip from behind the tree like a ghost, the spear poised high in the air. Varkan was taking a good aim to make sure the throw would be lethal. But when his hand had already began its forward movement, Varkan lost his footing on the slippery ground. The spear flew from Varkan’s hand, turned in the air, and grazed the boar on the head.

Varkan tried to keep his balance, flailing his arms, but the enraged beast had already seen his enemy and rushed at Varkan, immediately knocking him down.

“Oh, Varkan!” Lida screamed. “Help him, somebody! The boar’ll kill him!”

Artem saw the huge reddish body of the boar almost directly below, and Varkan making unsuccessful attempts to get to his feet. Another moment and the boar would be at Varkan’s chest with his deadly tusks. A strange, gurgling sound came from Artem’s throat, and without any further deliberation, casting all other considerations aside, he drew his sword and jumped down from the tree.

Later, Artem would not have been able to give a detailed account of what followed. He did not know how he managed to stay on his feet after he landed, but anyway, he found himself standing on the damp, swampy ground, his sword raised high, and the wide powerful bristly back of the boar in front of him. Without choosing where to hit, Artem brought down the sword with all his strength on its back. Blood spurted in all directions and the boar leaped into the air, letting out a terrible roar. In another moment, the boar turned to his new adversary, and Artem saw the red beady eyes, blazing with fury and pain, staring at him, and the tusks protruding from the open mouth, ready to be brought into action against him. The boar lowered himself a little on his hind legs, about to dash at his new enemy.

Artem still had time to think: Now he’ll get at me all right. If only I could hit him again on the head.

The sword flashed in the air, but Artem had no chance to use it again as the boar, in one massive leap knocked Artem to the ground. A sharp pain shot through his leg. After a giddy moment, he found himself lying on his back staring at the yellow-pink leaves moving peacefully in the breeze above him. And he heard sounds of the extreme fury coming from the boar. Then these sounds suddenly stopped, and a gurgling sound like water pouring from a narrow bottleneck could be heard instead. Then everything became very still and quiet…

The stillness was broken by Lida’s voice, filled with anxiety:

“Oh, my dear Artem, are you all right? Can you get up? Artem!”

Another voice joined Lida’s, saying something. It was definitely Varkan’s voice. He was still alive then! The boar hadn’t ripped him open then!

Somebody’s careful hands helped him to a sitting position.

“Artem, my dear, are you badly hurt? Tell me!”

“No, not much harm’s been done, as far as I can tell… only my leg hurts a little,” Artem at last gained sufficient control of his speach to utter a few words. His field of vision had widened to include Lida, who was holding his head, her face full of concern; Varkan, his clothes torn, helmetless, also looking at him with great concern; and another Scythian holding a leather helmet with water dripping from it.

“Hey, what’s wrong? It’s not my funeral yet!” Artem said. “I’m safe and sound. The boar’s just sort of fallen on me that’s all… There’s only a little pa… ouch!”

Artem groaned as a sharp pain shot through his leg. Varkan came up to him, knelt before him, took Artem’s hand into both his hands and put it to his forehead.

“What are you doing, Varkan! Quit it!” Artem exclaimed.

Still holding Artem’s hand against his forehead, the Scythian looked straight into Artem’s eye, his gaze full of sincere gratitude. So, the Scythian must be thanking Artem, in his own way, for saving his life. But the way he was doing it was somewhat embarrassing as far as Artem was concerned.

“It’s a great shame we can’t communicate properly,” Artem said with a sigh. “Then I’d explain to you, my friend, that there’s nothing in particular to thank me for. Could I have done otherwise? Wouldn’t you have done the same had you been in my place? Only it’s too bad I didn’t have a gun. A gun, you know, is a thing that gives you a much better chance than a spear, even if you can throw it as well as you do.”

Meanwhile, Varkan, scooping out water from the leather helmet with deft movements, began washing the wound on Artem’s leg. Fortunately, it wasn’t very deep: the boar’s tusk had torn through the skin and upper layers of the muscles. Then Varkan dressed the wound with the same expertise, putting some fragrant leaves on it. Afterwards, he slapped Artem encouragingly on the back, and smiling broadly, helped the young man to his feet. The pain in the leg had miraculously subsided. Perhaps the leaves had helped?

“Do you hurt, Artem?” Lida asked, peering anxiously into the young man’s face. She was eager to be useful in some way.

“When I think about it, it hurts, but when I take my mind off it, I can easily forget about it. It’s probably the leaves that help soothe the pain.”

Artem walked over to the dead boar, limping. The boar’s body was stretched to its impressive full length on the ground; thick red blood was still oozing from the open mouth.

There was a bloody cut on the boar’s back inflicted by the sword, evidently Artem’s blow. There was also a gash which could not have been caused by Artem — a very powerful blow indeed that had laid bare the back clear to the spine. The third blow on the boar’s head bashed it in, breaking it almost in two. Who had inflicted these two devastating blows?

“Lida, did you see how it all happened?”

“How you jumped down from that tree?”

“That far I can recollect well enough. What I want to hear about is these last two blows. My blow could not have killed the boar, it just wasn’t powerful enough.”

“The other Scythian did the rest. When we began climbing up the trees, Varkan said something to him and he ran back to where our horses were. Then I saw him run back here, just as you were jumping down. When you fell, Varkan was still on the ground, and this other man struck the boar with his sword first on the head, then on the back. The boar collapsed, kicking and wheezing. But you were lying motionless, and I was so frightened for you. I thought you’d been… that you’ve been…”

“Oh, there, there, I’m all right,” Artem said, somewhat ill at ease at this expression of concern. “Now, everything’s clear, and we can close the subject. I can’t stand it when girls show too much anxiety over trifling matters. Now, look, Varkan is going to dress the boar so we can take it with us!”

Varkan and the other Scythian dragged the carcass closer to a tree. From time to time, Varkan glanced up at Lida and Artem as if he knew what mood they were in. His face was cheerful, and every time he met the gaze of Lida or Artem, a broad, genial grin appeared on his face, as it so often had before.

Lida and Artem watched in fascination how dexterously Varkan made a long cut across the boar’s belly, removed and threw away the intestines. Meanwhile, the other Scythian brought the horses; the boar was put on one of them and firmly secured. Varkan mounted his horse, his friend jumped up behind him. Then Varkan gave the signal: let’s go.

The horses trotted off. Artem followed the horse with the boar’s carcass. Even disembowled and slung across the horse’s back the boar had a very threatening appearance with his wide open mouth and tusks. Willy-nilly, Artem recalled the moment those tusks had been aimed at him. With what infernal fury those beady red eyes had blazed then! If Varkan’s friend hadn’t delivered those timely blows, Artem wouldn’t have had a chance to examine the head of the dead beast and recall the details of the hunt.

“Varkan seems to be very grateful to you, Artem,” Lida said unexpectedly, catching up with the young man. “Remember how movingly he put your hand to his forehead? That must have been the Scythian way of saying ‘thank you,’ what do you think?”

“Yes, must have been. But in this case I should thank Varkan’s friend for what he did…”

“But to pluck up courage to jump down from that tree onto the boar! Weren’t you frightened?”

“I didn’t have to pluck up my courage. I don’t think there was even time to get properly frightened. I did the first thing that came to mind, and there’s nothing more to discuss, really.”

Lida realized Artem had definitely changed and was no longer the boy she had known at college or while they were exploring the Sharp Mount. Then, he had been an ordinary young man, a good friend, sometimes a little droll, but in most respects, very much like so many others.

Now, under these exceptional conditions verging on the unreal, Artem had begun to develop some new qualities; bravery, quick reflexes, keen powers of observation, and sharpness of reasoning. But to look at him, he remained his old self: the same shock of hair, the same wide-eyed expression, sometimes filled with inexplicable sadness. It was his behavior that had changed. And all the drollery seemed to have disappeared. His every movement, his every phrase seemed so dear to her, so close…

They had left the forest and were riding across the remarkable pink steppe. Grasshoppers chirped loudly, and above their heads, just beneath the low clouds, larks were singing. The smell of honey, emanating from the high grass, hung m the air. The pyramid of branches with the scimitar sticking from the top came into view in the distance. From this distance, the pyramid looked quite small; the scimitar looked hardly thicker than a piece of hair; in the evening dusk, the cliffs seemed to have moved closer and to lean inward, encompassing in a tightening grip the forest, the steppe, and the Scythian camp…

The neighing of many horses reached their ears. Varkan gave a warning gesture with his hand and turned his horse aside; Artem and Lida followed suit. This proved a very timely maneuver; the first horses of a big herd emerged from the high grass. Hundreds of horses were galloping straight ahead in what appeared to be a solid mass, making the earth tremble. About a dozen Scythians were driving the herd along, cracking their long whips.

The riders stopped to watch the herd pass. Varkan surely knew what he was doing when he gave the sign to make way! Even at a considerable distance away from the herd, their horses grew restless and began neighing, and evidently wanting to join the herd. It was frightening to think what might have happened to them if they had not moved out of the way of the herd!

Artem recalled the stories about the Scythians Dmitro Borisovich had told in the evening by the fire after the day’s work at the Sharp Mount. Now, before his very eyes, illustrations of those stirring stories had come to life.

Herds of horses were the main asset of the Scythians. Artem knew already that horses’ meat and milk were the main staples of the Scythian diet; how had it happened that these herds were owned by just a handful of wealthy Scythians? Artem kept thinking about these things long after the herd had disappeared. Meanwhile, Lida, overcome with fatigue, had begun dozing in the saddle. Artem also felt weariness spreading through him.

Suddenly Varkan whistled sharply; there was a rider galloping toward them from the Scythian camp brandishing his spear. He reined in his horse sharply just in front of Varkan. They discussed something briefly. Varkan turned to look at Lida, who was half-asleep on her horse, then shifted his gaze to Artem, his eyes asking: is she all right? Artem made a gesture as if to say, she’s all right, just tired.

Varkan said something to the rider, who immediately turned his horse around and galloped away. In a short while Varkan stopped at a small, felt-covered kibitka. He dismounted, and helped Artem take the exhausted Lida from the horse. The girl was barely able to stand upright. Once inside, she collapsed onto a thick soft rug. Varkan said a few quick words to an old Scythian who was in the kibitka. In no time, tall pitchers of cold milk, plates laden with roast meat, and loaves of bread were brought in and placed before Artem and Lida. Varkan sat down by their side and invited them to have some food.

Every swallow of the cool, fragrant milk that was thirstily gulped down, seemed to give Lida new strength. At last, she felt so refreshed she even smiled. She was somewhat embarrassed for having shown weakness. But no one, of course, would mention it. Artem was eating the meat with gusto, washing it down with milk.

“Of course, it’d be more convenient to use a fork,” Artem said, making it sound like a revelation, and tearing off a.piece of meat with his fingers at the same time. “But it’s all right this way too, especially when you’re hungry. As a matter of fact, it suits the local life style better. Oh, and.what’s that?”

A woman in a tall headdress brought in a gold bowl; Varkan took it from her and put it on the floor, between himself and Artem. Artem watched Varkan with mounting curiosity, continuing to fill his mouth with morsels of food at the same time. Immediately after placing the bowl on the floor, Varkan left the kibitka with the host, the old Scythian. Artem said turning to Lida and shrugging his shoulders:

“Our friend seems to be putting himself to unnecessary trouble. Is he going to treat us to something else? What do you think?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” the girl said quietly. “He’s extremely grateful to you; take my word for it.”

Artem made a gesture as if to say skip it.

Varkan came back with the host who was carrying a wine-skin like those in which Artem knew the Scythians kept their intoxicating beverage, oksugala.

“Oh, it looks like he really is going to treat us to that ^Scythian drink,” Artem said.

Varkan stopped in the center of the kibitka, assuming a solemn posture, and began telling the old Scythian and the woman about the boar hunt. Though neither Artem nor Lida understood a single word, Varkan’s gestures were so expressive, so vividly presenting the events of the hunt that they had no difficulty in following the story.

Varkan finished his story, came up to Artem, and put Artem’s hand to his forehead the way he had already done.before, throwing Artem into utter confusion.

“All right, enough of that,” he blurted out, snatching his hand away from Varkan’s grip. “I do wish he’d stop bringing it up!”

Varkan picked up the bowl and put it right in front of Artem; then he bowed before Artem ceremoniously and.began speaking again, making himself understood with the _vhelp of gestures: Varkan evidently wanted to thank Artem for rescuing him from certain death. Then he pointed to the bowl, rolled up his shirt sleeve, and with a quick movement, made a small cut in one of his fingers. Several drops of blood fell into the bowl.

“What’s going on?” Artem asked, feeling quite at a loss; the whole procedure baffled him completely.

“Now you’ll have to do the same,” Lida said without a moment of hesitation.

“How do you know?” Artem said giving her a distrustful.glance.

“Oh, I remember reading about such a custom being practiced among primitive peoples,” Lida said, smiling. “It’s called ‘swearing eternal brotherhood’ or ‘becoming blood brothers.’”

“What’s that?”

“You’re supposed to cut your finger and let some of your blood drip into the bowl to mix with Varkan’s. Then you’ll drink the blood.”

Artem made a wry face:

“I don’t imagine it tastes very good…”

“Oh, there’s one more thing — some wine should be added to the bowl… But the Scythians don’t have wine… Oh, of course! They’ll use oksugala! You’ll drink that and it’ll taste better, even with the blood mixed in it.”

“Still I’m not very eager to try it. Why should we go through with this in the first place?”

“After you’ve done it, you and Varkan will become sworn brothers for the rest of your life. Which, incidentally, will put certain obligations on you.”

“Obligations? Will we behave like real brothers?”

“There’s more to it than just being real brothers. I can’t say for sure what it entails; I don’t remember all the details. You’ll have to ask Dmitro Borisovich. He’ll gladly explain everything.”

Meanwhile, Varkan was standing there holding the bowl and listening to the exchange of incomprehensible words. Artem still had his doubts:

“What if I refuse to participate in this… err… blood drinking ceremony? What happens then?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’d be a great offense for Varkan. Just think the situation over carefully: Varkan is so filled with gratitude to you that offers to become your blood brother — how can you reject his offer? I think it’s impossible. Go ahead, Artem and do what’s expected of you.”

“Oh, well, all right. But do we really have to have all this blood?…” Artem protested feebly, but he had already.realized that Varkan would take his refusal as a grave offense, so he simply had to accept the offer. He gave his hand to Varkan, but not without reservations.

The Scythian made a quick cut in Artem’s forefinger. Artem made a wry face — a rather disgusting custom to his mind.

Several drops of Artem’s blood fell into the bowl and were mixed with the blood of the Scythian. Varkan raised the bowl solemnly. The old Scythian poured some of the oksugala into the bowl. Varkan pulled out his sword, sat down beside Artem, and offered him the bowl. Lida, who had been watching the scene intently, urged Artem on, a smile on her lips:

“Take your sword out of the sheath, too, Artem. That must be how they do it. Then drink from the bowl. I hope you’ll tell me how it tasted!”

“Stop teasing,” Artem said with annoyance. But he pulled put his sword, took the bowl from Varkan with his free hand, and then without any further hesitation, pressed his lips to the edge of the bowl. Varkan, still holding the sword in one hand, put the other hand across Artem’s shoulders, leaned forward and carefully put his lips to the edge of bowl.

“Go ahead, drink! You should do it together, at the same time!” Lida exclaimed.

The oksugala was thick and fragrant, and Artem failed to detect any unpleasant flavor. But it would hardly have been possible to taste the few drops of blood in the whole bowlful of oksugala. Then Varkan put the empty bowl aside, embraced Artem, and kissed him on the mouth, his brown curly beard tickling Artem’s chin.

“How does it feel, blood-sucker?” Lida said archly, giving Artem a piquant look.

“Not too bad. Quite tasty, this oksugala. It’s even better than what we had with Skolot. And I didn’t taste the blood at all. Ha-ha.”

Artem felt that the oksugala had gone into his head. How much of it had he drunk? No less than a quart… And all at once… Had some new faces appeared in the kibitka? Many warriors… or hunters? It made no difference… some women… all of them must have entered while he was drinking the oksugala… A great thing, incidentally, oksugala, just grrrreat! So, now, they were blood brothers, he and Varkan, right? Verrry interesting… a fine custom too, verrry fine custom!

To Artem, everything looked slightly out of focus; he liked all the faces around him. Everyone was looking at him in such a brotherly fashion, smiling at him so amiably… See, now, they’re nice, but that morning by the altar, they had shouted threats and imprecations… But was it really worth remembering all that? They’d just been hoodwinked by Dorbatay… In fact, all the Scythians were very nice people, really. What a shame he couldn’t speak Scythian; he’d tell them all how nice they were… But why were they making so much incomprehensible noise?

Varkan was once again telling the story of the hunt, this time to the Scythians who had gathered in the kibitka. As he talked, he repeatedly pointed to Lida, then to Artem. Once, he even jumped, evidently illustrating how Artem had leaped down from the tree and struck the boar with his sword. The Scythians expressed their approval of the young stranger’s courageous behavior with cheers. They regarded Artem with new respect, giving him friendly smiles.

Artem was already past the stage of the initial embarrassment, probably, due to the oksugala he had drunk, and felt quite at ease now, taking all the respect offered him in stride, and, in his turn, watching the Scythians.

Among them was a tall, bearded Scythian wearing a leather helmet, a sword at his side. Artem was sure he had seen this man before at close quarters, especially when he noticed two sword cuts on the helmet that were crudely stitched together. But where had he seen this Scythian before? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. There had been so many faces, so many things he had seen, so many adventures he had lived through in the last two days. Was the old Scythian who had brought the meat and milk, and then the oksugala, and was now listening so attentively to Varkan by any chance Varkan’s father? Their faces definitely bore some resemblance — the high forehead and aquiline nose. And if one looked behind the wrinkles of old age… There were several young Scythian women present who were listening to Varkan with absorbed interest, their chins resting on their hands, exactly as so many women of so many other cultures and epochs would have done!

New voices could be heard outside. A moment later, the felt flap was thrust aside and Artem saw Dmitro Borisovich walk in briskly. The moment he was inside, he began reproaching Artem and Lida:

“Look at them, sprawled on the carpets! And we’re waiting for them at Skolot’s, worrying sick about what might have happened to them, the young rascals! But they don’t seem to care at all! Now, get up quick and let’s go! Oh, you’re quite drunk, Artem! How do you account for this state of intoxication? What have you been celebrating?” Artem felt greatly discomfitted, and Lida said teasingly: “He’s been celebrating his blood brotherhood with Varkan. They drank oksugala mixed with blood together. And there was a lot of oksugala too!”

“Not that much!” Artem said sulkily.

“Blood brothers indeed! Really? Without my being present? Artem, that was very inconsiderate of you! You shoudn’t have performed this ceremony in my absence! It’s such an interesting custom, and isn’t it a shame I’ve missed it! That was selfish of you to leave me out of this! Egoistical even, I would say! Ignoring the necessity of scientific observation!”

“I couldn’t help it, Dmitro Borisovich! Varkan insisted on expressing his gratitude. And Lida also said that I should…”

“What gratitude? For what? Don’t tell me now! Let’s go! You can tell me everything on our way to Skolot’s, but you must give me a very full account, without omitting even the tiniest of details. By the looks of things, this custom corresponds well to the stage of development of these Scythians. You may begin now, my friend, I’m all ears.” The archeologist said a few words to Varkan, and they left the kibitka, accompanied by the Scythian.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Skolot holds a feast and drinks from a gold bowl; the blind Ormad recites the story of Darius, the Persian king, and his invading army which received special gifts from the Scythians; Ivan Semenovich is beset by worries and Dorbatay arrives to ruin the mood of everyone at the feast.

There was an open space in front of the huge kibitka of Skolot, trampled smooth by innumerable feet and covered with carpets and hemp mats. Big wagons and kibitkas, mailer than Skolot’s, circled this open space in an almost continuous wall, with only a few narrow passages left between them; the area thus enclosed looked like an amphitheater.

In the center of it, on a dais, with multi-colored carpets all over it, sat Skolot. Next to him reclined the most honored guest, Ivan Semenovich. The geologist maintained a very lively intercourse with Skolot consisting entirely of gestures. What the two of them could make out of such a conversation remained a secret to everyone except the participants, and they seemed quite satisfied with the results.

Hartak, sitting close to Skolot, too, had put on sumptuous clothes for the occasion. But there seemed to be nothing that could adorn this man, and not because he was a cripple! His deformities were the least of the reasons; it was his wicked face with its constant expression of disgusted displeasure, twisted in a disdainful grimace of mistrust that made him so repulsive that no garments, regardless of how fine they were, could alter the impression. He never looked anyone straight in the eye, but avoided meeting even a chance gaze. His lips were dry, and tightly pursed; his small, uneven teeth could be occasionally glimpsed when he talked; the forced smiles would at times appear on his greenish-gray face only to slide into the usual grimace.

The elders who had distinguished themselves in battle and hunt sat around the dais. They wore tall leather helmets, adorned with gold decorations, their white stringy hair hanging in long strands. These old warriors and hunters with long mustaches and gray beards had won the right to be sitting close to the chieftain by their bold deeds.

A little further away sat influential members of the tribe and wealthy Scythians of high rank. They kept their distance from the distinguished old warriors and hunters and, naturally, from those of lower rank. These people looked dignified and haughty, hardly noticing anything around them, and talking only among themselves in low voices.

Still further away were the ordinary Scythians, sitting by the wagons and kibitkas, in compact groups. Those who had shown special valor in recent hunts had places closer to the center. On the very fringes of the gathering far from everyone else sat the Scythian youths who had not distinguished themselves in anything yet but dreamed of feats of valor and fame; they were sitting on horses’ hides or on the bare ground.

The Scythian women were sitting on separate rugs; and not all the women of the tribe were present — only those who wanted to take part in the feast. They watched the strangers with great interest, concentrating mostly on Lida; they were amazed to see Lida wearing no headgear, especially since the rest of her attire was so perplexingly unusual. But the Scythian women were quite at ease in this predominantly male company, talking in loud and cheerful voices, sometimes bursting into laughter, probably at jokes that the explorers could not understand. It was evident that participation in such feasts was quite a habitual thing for them.

“I’m surprised at the behavior of these women,” Artem said to Lida under his breath. “I thought the Scythian women would behave in quite a different manner…”

“You expected them to be cowed down or something?” Lida asked with a challenge.

“No, not cowed down. That’s too strong a word… but, in any case, not so independent as they look. Didn’t the Scythians come from somewhere in the East? And to the best of my knowledge, the Oriental women, since time immemorial have held a submissive position…”

“But these women, as you can well see, behave in a different manner: they’re cracking jokes and laughing. Evidently they’re very relaxed,” Lida said. “They…”

“First of all, they’re not ‘Oriental women,”’ Dmitro Borisovich suddenly broke in. “The Scythians are not purely of Asian descent, but are rather Eurasian. To the best of our knowledge, they formed as an ethnic group in the steppes between the Danube and Yenisey rivers. And how could you speak of the Scythians as Orientals after I’ve told you so much about them — about the matriarchy in the tribes related to the Scythians, about the amazons and warrior- queens. And I don’t think it is justified in any historical or economic sense to link the Scythians to Oriental life styles, because the Orient developed along quite separate, distinct lines, with quite different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Consequently…”

“I’m sorry, Dmitro Borisovich, but so many people are waiting for us,” Lida interrupted the archeologist rather abruptly just as he was getting up steam, giving Artem a sidelong glance; she knew very well that once Dmitro Borisovich got on his high horse, he could go on indefinitely.

“Yes, of course,” he said, slightly embarrassed as he saw that Lida was right. “We’re standing here talking while people are waiting for us! The big feast is about to begin.” A murmur rippled through the gathering when the Scythians saw Dmitro Borisovich, Lida and Artem, the remarkable young stranger who had emerged a winner in the contest with Dorbatay. The Scythians hurriedly made way for them, and a wide passage opened in the mass of humanity leading straight to the dais. The old chieftain acknowledged the arrival of the three strangers by raising himself a little from his place. He said something in a welcoming tone and gestured to the carpets at his side.

“Skolot invites us to take our seats beside him,” said the archeologist. “It’s a great honor, you know.”

“Oh, it looks as if we’re going to have a real feast,” said Artem, looking around.

“Yes, we are,” Ivan Semenovich said. “And we have to behave appropriately. This concerns you Artem first of all. Don’t forget that hundreds of eyes are watching your every jnovement and certain conclusions will be drawn. So be careful. Some of the Scythians are watching us especially closely,” and the geologist surreptitiously pointed to the wealthy Scythians sitting in a separate group.

As a matter of fact, while the distinguished old warriors and hunters eyed the strangers with curiosity, the wealthy Scythians were much more reserved in their attitude, which bordered on hostility. Their hostility was hardly surprising, since the strangers had acted against Dorbatay, causing resentment among those who supported the crafty and perfidious soothsayer. All the explorers understood this, and consequently took the geologist’s remark very seriously.

“Artem, you’d better not drink any more,” Lida said in a low anxious voice. “It might have a bad effect on you, since you’re unaccustomed to strong drinks.”

“I wasn’t going to, anyway,” Artem replied, also in a low voice. “I feel a little sick in my stomack after all the oksugala 1 had with Varkan. Whichever way you turn it, this oksugala isn’t very good for you… if you have too much of it, that is.”

“I’m of the same opinion,” Lida said.

It was very pleasant and comfortable to be sitting on the thick-piled carpet. Artem stretched out his legs, enjoying himself — it did feel very good to be resting like this! He was almost sober again, his mind practically free from the effect of the drink. If only he could avoid drinking any more oksugala!

Skolot clapped his hands twice. At this signal, servants immediately appeared carrying platters — raised high above their heads — of steaming boiled and roasted meat. The meat was followed by large cauldrons of soup, also steaming. The food was placed on mats in front of the Scythians who had gathered for the feast.

It seemed that all the available space had been already taken by the dishes and cauldrons, but the servants continued bringing them out. The younger Scythians, without waiting for any signal that the feast had officially begun, fell to eating, tearing the meat into manageable pieces with their fingers. But none of the older Scythians, all those distinguished warriors and hunters, the group of wealthy men — all those bearded and mustached scions — began eating. They were obviously waiting for something. The wealthy Scythians did not even seem to notice the food placed before them. They continued talking among themselves in low voices, casting sullen glances at the strangers from time to time.

“Oh, Artem, you have a bandaged leg! What happened? Have you been wounded?” the geologist asked solicitously, not having been informed of what had happened during the hunt.

“Oh, Ivan Semenovich, it’s a very interesting story with a fascinating ending!” Lida put in quickly. “You keep quiet now, Artem. You’ll get confused again and won’t be able to tell anything straight,” she said stopping the young man before he could break into the conversation. “I know what I’m saying. Artem proved himself a hero at the hunt…”

“Lida, cut it out!”

“Artem, keep quiet I tell you! He saved Varkan’s life, that’s what he did, really and truly, putting himself into mortal danger. And then, as a result of everything that happened during the hunt, he became Varkan’s blood brother!”

“Blood brother?”

“Yes, his blood brother, which is more than just being a real brother,” Lida said warming to her subject. “Isn’t that correct, Dmitro Borisovich?”

“Absolutely,” the archeologist said. “Brothers of one family sometimes become bitter enemies, like Skolot and Dorbatay, for example. But a blood brother for a Scythian means more than a brother of the same mother. That’s quite true.”

Artem rubbed his brow pensively:

“That’s what Lida told me too… and yet I can’t quite figure out how that could be.”

“There’s nothing really extraordinary about it. It fits well into the traditions of a tribe that is still at the family group stage of development. Family or clan relations are very important, and when a Scythian becomes your blood brother, he shows by this act that he is your closest, ‘blood’ relative. You see my point?”

“Yes, I do,” Artem said with a sigh.

“There’s one more thing to it,” Dmitro Borisovich said in passing. “You no longer have the right to risk your life.”

“As a matter of fact I wasn’t exactly planning to. But why should you warn me against it in the first place, that’s what I’d like to know?”

“Because, according to the rules of blood brotherhood, when one of the blood brothers dies, the other must die, too. This aspect emphasizes the significance of the ritual.”

“Oh, what a thing I’ve gotten myself into!” Artem said, making a gesture of utter confusion. “So, I don’t even have the right to die when I see fit! I’m in a fine fix!”

“You, Artem, and Varkan are like Siamese twins,” Lida burst out laughing. Artem gave her an angry glare and was about to open his mouth to give her a piece of his mind too — why was she always putting in her unsolicited opinions! — but he was prevented from doing so by Ivan Semenovich.

“Do be quiet! You’ll have plenty of time to exchange opinions later on. You’re attracting attention with your bickering. The servants are bringing in the main course of the feast!”

Four servants brought in the big roast boar, the very boar that had been killed in the forest earlier in that day — but not before it had nearly killed Varkan and Artem. Artem thought he could still recognize the dread shape of the head with its protruding tusks. But all the fearsomeness was gone from the boar; it was now lying with its feet tucked under its body, the head thrust forward — just the way a carcass roasted whole is supposed to look.

The boar was placed in front of Skolot. Apparently the Scythians considered it a special treat, because now the gray-haired warriors and hunters moved closer to the boar, appraising it carefully with the eyes of connoisseurs.

Skolot gave a signal to Varkan. The young Scythian pulled a short, wide knife from its sheath and began carving the meat, deftly as usual, separating the big pieces. The servants took the carved meat to the guests. But they still waited for some signal to begin eating. It was only when Skolot himself picked up a piece of meat and bit into it that the rest began eating; evidently, it was the host, the chieftain who was to open the feast. The Scythians gobbled up the meat, tearing it with their fingers or cutting pieces off with knives. The hot juice ran down their hands, arms and faces, staining their clothes and the carpets. But nobody seemed to notice or care; everyone was too occupied with the food. Even the rich Scythians who up till then had preserved a haughty and dignified demeanor, discarded it and gobbled up the meat exactly like the others.

The servants continued scurrying back and forth now, bringing wineskins with oksugala and placing them before the guests. Oksugala was poured into the bronze bowls and much clinking was heard as the toasting began. The voices _tof the Scythians grew louder.

Suddenly Skolot raised kis hand and a servant handed him two gold cups bound together.

“This must have some special significance,” Dmitro Borisovich whispered. “A ceremony of some sort shoud follow shortly!”

Another servant began filling the gold cups with oksugala; the chieftain stopped him with a nod, as if to say “enough,” and raised the cups in a gesture of greeting, turning to the strangers.

“He’s going to drink our health, isn’t he,” Lida said to Artem in a low voice.

“Let him drink,” he answered, also under his breath. “I only hope they won’t go pushing that oksugala on me, because I can’t stand the sight of it just now…”

The chieftain put the cups slowly and ceremoniously to his lips and emptied them in one long draft, stopping only pnce to move his lips from one cup to the other. Then he flung them to the ground. Then followed cheers from the Scythians, who hurriedly raised their cups and bowls and drained them. The women began singing a solemn, moody song.

Meanwhile, Varkan had handed Skolot another big golden bowl, and a servant, holding a wineskin full of oksugala, with two hands, filled the bowl. The oldest and most distinguished of the hunters approached the chieftain and received the bowl from Skolot’s hands. Moving carefully, he bowed, stood up straight, and drank the oksugala. The Scythians evidently considered it a great honor to receive a bowl of oksugala straight from the chieftain’s hands. This honor was extended only to those guests who had proven themselves worthy of the chieftain’s respect. The oldest hunter was followed by the other old Scythians, all of whom received the golden bowl, constantly refilled, from Skolot’s hands.

Neither did the rest of the Scythians lag behind in consumption of oksugala. Their bronze bowls began ringing louder as they were filled and refilled. The confused murmur gained in strength and rose to a hubbub as the guests exploded in laughter every so often.

“It’s frightening… what’ll happen when they all get drunk?” Lida said, moving closer to the archeologist. But he assured her:

“You don’t have to worry, my dear girl. As I recall, ancient people knew when to stop, unlike so many of our ‘civilized’ contemporaries. Everything’ll be all right!”

“Look, the next act in the show is beginning,” Artem said in a low voice.

“Yes, look over there! There’s a very old man walking to the dais!” Lida exclaimed, forgetting her fears.

And indeed, a man, very advanced in years, was approaching the dais, supported on either side by two youngsters. The chieftain raised his hand in greeting. It grew a lot quieter as the Scythians evidently held the old man in great respect.

Wearing a long white robe and a white fur hat, he walked slowly and silently, his eyes staring unmovingly upwards, his withered hands resting on the shoulders of the two young men. Wherever he passed loud laughter and talking died away, and heads were bowed as people hurriedly made way for the old man. His progress was slow; he seemed hardly able to move his feet; it was surprising that he had any.strength left in him to move at all!

“But he’s blind!” Lida said in a mild shock.

The old man’s blank eyes were still turned upward when he at last arrived at the dais; Skolot greeted him deferentially. The old man replied, and his voice sounded surprisingly strong and deep, as though it belonged to a robust middle- aged man rather than to one so old.

He was helped to lower himself onto one of the carpets covering the dais. His eyes kept staring blindly upwards and his lips were moving, but no sounds came out. There was a sudden splash of tambourine music that died a few moments after it began only to be followed by the sounds of bone fifes which also lasted a few moments and reminded the explorers of a military call. An absolute silence descended over the place — all talking and laughter ceased. All the Scythians were now looking at the old man sitting on the dais. The old man continued moving his lips silently as though he were saying a prayer known only to himself.

Dmitro Borisovich leaned toward Varkan:

“Who’s that old man?”

“He’s the oldest and most respected of the Scythians,” Varkan replied, never taking his reverential gaze off the old man. “His name is Ormad. He was born so long ago that nobody remembers when. But he remembers our fathers and grandfathers as children. Ormad is said to have been so great a warrior and hunter that no one had ever risked a contest with him. Now he lives in his kibitka and is held in great esteem. He appears in public only on the most important occasions to tell people the stories of the glorious events of the past.”

“Is he going to tell one of his stories, now?” the archeologist asked, his eyes shining with anticipation.

Varkan nodded his head:

“The tambourines and fifes gave the signal that old Ormad would come out soon to recite a story. Now everybody’s ready to listen,” and Varkan embraced the audience in an all-encompassing gesture.

“Varkan, good man, I beseech you to begin translating everything the old man says as soon as he starts. Will you do it, please?” the archeologist said, his voice full of supplication. “You just can’t imagine how important it is for me!”

Varkan was quick to agree; so far he had done everything the strangers had asked him to do.

In a few words, Dmitro Borisovich related to his friends the essence of what Varkan had told him; they appeared no less interested than the archeologist himself.

“So, Varkan is going to interpret what the old man says… That’s good… But Dmitro Borisovich, will you do us a favor and translate everything for us immediately after Varkan’s interpretation?” Ivan Semenovich said in a voice that left no room for arguing. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

But Dmitro Borisovich protested:

“It’s still rather difficult for me, you know. Besides if I do the interpreting I won’t be able to concentrate on the story itself, I just won’t be able to remember everything that’s been said… I won’t be able to write it down…”

“Don’t let that worry you, Dmitro Borisovich; we’ll all help you reconstruct the details. There’s even a marked advantage to having the story of Ormad lodged in four heads instead of only one,” the geologist said, clinching the argument convincingly, so Dmitro Borisovich had to give in.

The old man stopped moving his lips silently, passed his frail hand slowly over his tarnished mustache that was no longer white but had yellowed with age. Now the silence was absolute, and he began speaking solemnly at a well- measured pace. At the same time, the double translation began.

“Hearken ye to the story of Ormad. Give ear to what I shall tell you! Oh Skolots! Oh far-famed chieftain, Skolot, listen to my tale, and you, Hartak, the chieftain’s young son, don’t miss a word! All of you, old and young, warriors and hunters,rich and poor, listen to my tale! Everyone, listen! And you, strangers who have come to us from some mysterious land, listen as well! All of you must know that no one save old Ormad can tell you of the glorious deeds of the Skolot people in times long past! So listen! No one, except for old Ormad has the knowledge of what he has heard from his great grandfathers, tales passed from one generation to another! No one knows these stories except for old Ormad who does not have long to live among you!”

He stopped as though searching his memory, and Artem whispered hurriedly to the archeologist:

“Why does he keep calling the Scythians ‘Skolots?’ Anything to do with the chieftain Skolot?”

“No, rather the other way round. The Scythians called themselves ‘Skolots,’ or so we can assume. In fact, it was the Greeks who called them ‘Scythians,’ and we borrowed the name from the Greeks, but, naturally, Ormad would use the native word — ‘Skolots.’ But hush now! The old man has begun speaking again!”

“I’ll tell you today of the memorable war in which the Skolots fought the invading forces of the mighty Persian King Darius who had gathered thousands of troops to invade the Skolots’ lands. Listen to me, all of you! Old Ormad will speak of the glory and bravery of the Skolot warriors, of the wisdom of the Skolots!

“The great and formidable King Darius of Persia had conquered almost all the world. He had subjugated many countries by sword and fire, and no one dared to oppose him. Then he learnt that there still was a land not subject to him — the land of the Skolots. The Skolot warriors were fearless and undaunted. No other nation could conquer them. Knowing this, King Darius fixed his mind on making war on the Skolots and subject them to his rule as he had done with other nations. But his counselors advised him against the expedition, given the uncertainty of the outcome in view of the intrepidity and bravery of the Skolot warriors. But King Darius, blinded as he was by his great successes elsewhere, ignored this advice, calling his counselors cowards. So, King Darius assembled a great army and marched against the Skolots. It was a terrible and formidable force: the sky was dark with the dust raised by thousands upon thousands of feet of Persians and soldiers of other nations dependent on King Darius as the army advanced into the Skolots’ lands. As this army advanced, rivers disappeared — the Persian soldiers drank them all up. As the army advanced, it left but naked earth behind — all the grass was eaten to the last stem by the horses.

“King Darius proudly reviewed his innumerable troops and said: ‘If every soldier of my army takes a rock and hurls it at the Skolots, and if four out of five miss, even then not a single Skolot will be left alive!’ And King Darius advanced his army further into the wilderness of the steppes in search of the Skolots and their forces to fight a single decisive battle against them and win it, thus subjugating the Skolots…

“But the Skolot chieftains saw that they did not have sufficient forces to fight a battle in the open field against the overwhelming Persian multitudes. So the wise Skolot chieftains resovled to retreat covertly, with all their women, possessions and herds, and divided their forces into two bodies. They resolved to make it very difficult for the Persians to move freely through their lands, to make them lose strength as they marched. The wise Skolot chieftains resolved to fill up the wells and the springs as they passed and to destroy the herbage as they went…

“The Skolots retired in two groups to the North and to the South. One of the groups drove their cattle and herds of horses before them, the women, children, and old people riding in the kibitkas. The Skolot warriors made up the rear, but did not engage in battles with the Persians. That was how the first group travelled…

“Meanwhile, the other group, made up of warriors alone, went South in fulfillment of what had been resolved by the wise chieftains, to meet the Persian army halfway, to harrass the Persians and delay their progress so the other group could retreat safely to the North with all the women, children, and cattle. The courageous Skolot warriors knew that they did not stand a chance in open battle against the innumerable army of King Darius but they had been told by the Skolot chieftains to meet the Persian army halfway, and they did. The Skolots attacked the Persian camp at night when the Persians, lulled by the absence of the enemy, were sleeping. Rudely awakened from sleep, they rushed to arms thinking that they had the Skolots’ army that was to be routed in one decisive battle before them, thus bringing under eternal subjugation the entire Skolot nation. After the initial attack had been repelled, King Darius ordered his men to prepare for battle in the morning, saying, blinded as he was by his power and successes: ‘One day of fighting — and we’ll rout the Skolots. Then my power and might will be boundless.’

“But the wise Skolot chieftains and the courageous Skolot warriors had something quite different in minds when they undertook the nocturnal attack on the Persian camp. Before the sun was up, they again retreated swiftly to the north, filling up the wells and setting fire to the dry grass as they retreated. And in the morning, the Persian army stood ready for battle but there were no Skolots to be seen anywhere around. Only the vultures, circling in the sky above, were crying over the absence of carrion.

“King Darius became exceedingly angry and marched his army further north in pursuit of the Skolots, wishing to catch up with them and force them into battle. But the Skolots continued retreating further and further north, not stopping to do battle with the Persians. And now, before the dread Persian army had passed, the springs and wells went dry, being filled with dirt and rocks by the Skolots. And now it was not after the Persians passed that the grass disappeared, having been eaten by the Persian horses, but before the advancing Persian army, for it was set afire by the Skolots as they retreated northward. The sky was again darkened with dust raised by the Persian multitudes as they passed over the scorched stretches of land seeking battle, but in vain.

“The Persian army continued its march northward, but nowhere did it encounter the enemy to be routed and subjugated. The formidable Persian army was seeking battle, but there was no one to do battle with, as the Skolots kept retreating, fulfilling the command of their wise chieftains… And the Persians’ rage grew greater as they continued to march without encountering the ellusive Skolots and without finding water in the springs and wells that had been filled with rocks and sand by the Skolots. The Persians were seething with such rage they would have destroyed and ground to dust anything they came across on their way, but there was nothing at all to destroy as they marched through the deserted, devastated land…

“The Skolots, meanwhile, having made a detour through their Northern territory, returned to their Southern lands without once engaging the Persians in a pitched battle. The dread and all-powerful Persian king then resolved, albeit very reluctantly, to turn west as he had lost so many soldiers who had died of thirst and starvation. But when King Darius took his decision to turn west and leave the Skolots’ lands, he did not know that about two days’ march ahead of him the Skolot divisions had burned and razed everything wherever the Persian army was to pass. It took King Darius several days to realize the cause of the devastation the Persians encountered in the formerly fertile lands, and when he did, he ordered his troops to throw themselves in hot pursuit to engage the Skolots in battle at last…

“But the wise Skolot chieftains told their warriors to retreat rapidly, not allowing the Persian army to catch up with them. And the hearts of the Persians were filled with despair. The vultures fell behind, feeling there would be no battle to provide them with food galore. The dread and formidable King Darius was overcome with rage, and he sent several horsemen to the Skolot chieftains on horses carefully chosen from the thousands of mounts in his army so they would be able to catch up with the Skolots. He sent the following message: ‘Most miserable of men, why do you continually take flight when you have two other choices? If you think you are able to resist my power, stand, and having ceased your wandering, fight us. But if you are conscious of your inferiority, cease your hurried march and acknowledge me as your master, bringing me gifts, or I shall subject both you and your land to ruin and destruction!’

“But the senior Skolot chieftain Idanthyrsus answered as follows: ‘This is the case, o Persian! Neither I nor my people have ever fled from any man out of fear, nor do we now so flee from thee; nor have we done anything but what we are wont to do even in time of peace. Before thou hast come or after thou leavest, my people will continue to move from one place to another as they have always done. We do not fight thee forthwith because there are so many other matters we must attend to. Do not issue empty threats, for we have no cities nor cultivated lands nor orchards — nothing which we fear might be taken or ravaged; and therefore, there is no reason why we should offer you Persians battle to defend anything. The grass that has burned will soon grow up again even higher, as it will get nourishment from the earth fertilized by the ashes of the burned grass and the corpses of thy fallen soldiers. So, why should we hasten to do battle with thee? Yet if it is by all means necessary for thee to do battle with us, we have the sepulchers of our ancestors. Come, find them and attempt to disturb them, then thou wilst learn whether or not we can fight. But until then, do not seek to do battle with us, for we will not fight you unless we choose to do so!’

“The Skolot chieftain Idanthyrsus concluded his message thus: ‘I will send thee only such gifts as are befitting, o miserable King! And in reply to thy boast that thou art my master, thou and thy soldiers will pay dearly for it!’

“Meanwhile, the number of deaths in the Persian army from starvation and thirst, from disease and fatigue increased manifold, and the vultures appeared above the Persians, circling in a black mass, waiting for their chance, never leaving again, as there was a growing amout of food for them; It was not the bodies of enemies killed in battle by the Persians, but the Persians themselves who died by the hundreds every day…

“The wise Skolot chieftains, having ascertained that Kang Darius was in dire straits, sent him a herald with the promised gifts. King Darius became mighty glad, as he was already prepared to make peace with the Skolots without any more attempts to subjugate them, and return home without further humiliation. King Darius desired to accord a solemn reception to the Skolots who were the bearers of the gifts, but they cast the gifts on the ground, turned around, and galloped away so fast none of the Persians on their exhausted mounts could catch up with them. When he saw the gifts, King Darius became exceedingly angry, because the wise Skolot chieftains had sent him a bird, a mouse, a frog, and five arrows making the king wonder what the meaning of these gifts was.

“King Darius and his counselors pondered over the meaning of the gifts for a long time, and his opinion was as follows: ‘The Skolots intended to give themselves up to me along with their lands, waters, and herds of horses. For a mouse is bred in the earth and subsists on the same food as a man; a frog lives in the water, without which neither man nor beast can live; a bird in flight is like a horse; and the arrows the Skolots have delivered mean that they give over all their military forces to me, all-powerful King Darius, and my army.’

“But this time the counselors risked disagreement with the dread King Darius and conjectured that the gifts intimated: Unless, o Persians, yon become birds and fly into the air, or become mice and hide yourselves beneath the earth, or become frogs and leap into the lakes, you shall never return home again, but will be smitten by these arrows.

“King Darius grew even more wrathful at this interpretation, since he saw that the Persians were not disposed to continue pursuing the Skolots and were apprehensive of the future.

“In the meantime, it was reported to the king that his illusive enemies had ceased their flight at last and had stopped in the steppe some distance away. King Darius, forgetting his great wrath, went to the top of the hill to have a look himself and saw that the Skolots had indeed drawn themselves up opposite the Persian camp as if they intended to engage in battle. The Skolots brandished their weapons as though challenging the Persians to do battle. King Darius resolved to accept the challenge immediately, as his army was still rather strong and large. But as he was about to issue battle orders, he saw a commotion rising among the Skolots. King Darius, quite bewildered, asked the meaning of the uproar in the enemy’s ranks and was told that they were pursuing a hare. The Skolots seemed to have forgotten about the Persians and the battle that was about to start, engaged, as they were, in the boisterous pursuit of the hare.

“When he heard this, the dread and all-powerful King Darius felt a dark foreboding creep into his heart, and he convened all his counselors and commanders and, filled with trepidation, told them the following: ‘Now I am convinced that you spoke rightly concerning the Skolots* gifts. We must return home in haste. The Skolots treat us with great contempt, since they are so sure of themselves that they have broken ranks and are ignoring us to pursue a single small animal in full view of our forces. If they are so sure of victory, should we really try to fight them? Let us return home as fast as we can to avoid any further disgrace!’

“Thus spoke the all-powerful and dread Persian King Darius. And when the night came, the Persian army, without engaging the Skolots in battle, broke camp and marched away, leaving behind the sick and wounded, the weak and maimed so as not to be hampered in their hasty retreat…

“O listen to me, listen to old Ormad, listen! Thus, in inglorious flight ended the march into the Skolot lands of the great and dread King Darius who — master of most of the known world — was then in such great haste to return home so as to avoid utter ruin with the remnants of his army, an army which not long before had been considered invincible and made the earth tremble, which had struck terror into the quick and dead alike… And now this dread army was fleeing from the Skolots without once engaging them in a major battle, something they had sought so persistently for so long; they were fleeing, chased by the fear that had been struck into all their hearts, even the heart of the all-powerful King Darius! So, the Persians were fleeing like the frightened hare that was pursued by the Skolots in view of the entire Persian camp. King Darius had been forced to relinquish and abandon all his glory and much of what he had carried with him across the wide Skolot steppes. The Skolots took much booty and won great glory for chasing away the dread King Darius, master of most of the known world. Glory to the gallant Skolot warriors, glory! Glory to the wise Skolot chieftains, glory!”

After old Ormad finished his tale, he kept nodding his head tiredly and moving his lips silently as cheers and excited shouting rose from all sides, the din enhanced by the ringing of weapons that some of the Scythians began brandishing. The Scythians freely expressed their great enthusiasm for the heroic tale recited by old Ormad. The bowls were again filled with oksugala and tambourines and bone fifes were played again.

Skolot filled a gold cup with his own hands and handed it solemnly to Ormad. The old man ceremoniously accepted the cup, managing to preserve his dignified appearance in spite of his fumbling movements, and raised it to his lips. His hands trembled — as is often the case with people of extreme old age — spilling some of the oksugala, but he drank to the dregs without stopping. Then he lowered his head, burying his chin in his chest, as though in complete exhaustion, leaned sideways, and fell asleep, oblivious of the din around him.

Dmitro Borisovich, no less thrilled than the Scythians, said to his friends: “Now I know that old Herodotus was quite correct in what he said in his history about the invasion of the Persians! His version differs only in some insignificant details. It’s most extraordinary what we’ve just heard! Artem! Lida! Do you hear? Everything’s clear now! Ah, you don’t give a damn! You don’t understand the importance of it!”

“We do, we honestly do, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem protested, trying to show by his voice that they really did care. But the archeologist’s mind was already occupied with something else. He turned again to Varkan, eagerly asked something and then listened to what the Scythian said with the greatest attention.

Ivan Semenovich was probably the only one who remained aloof from the festive mood of the gathering. Some vague foreboding was gnawing at his heart. He could not put his finger on it, but his rich life experience had taught him to feel impending danger with some sixth sense, and his sixth sense was sending signals that made him apprehensive. But what direction could this unidentified danger come from?

The explorers’ position seemed to have been established firmly enough; they had won considerable respect after the victory over Dorbatay at the altar. The crafty and treacherous Dorbatay must have lost much of his influence over the credulous Scythians as a soothsayer; he had even failed to turn up at the feast. Skolot appeared to display cordial feelings toward the strangers, either because he genuinely liked them or because of their triumph over the old soothsayer, his enemy. So, that left as a potential source of danger Hartak and the group of elders and the wealthy Scythians who probably supported the old soothsayer.

Ivan Semenovich took surreptitious glances at Skolot’s son, and discovered very soon that even at the feast, Hartak behaved differently from the rest of the Scythians. He hardly ate anything, had only a small cup of oksugala — and the small amount of drink he had had brought some color to his gray face and made his eyes even shiftier. Hartak seemed to be looking for someone, but evidently, that someone was not to be seen anywhere around. Still, Hartak continued searching the crowd with his eyes.

Hartak was restless even during Ormad’s recital. Once his darting eyes met the geologist’s and were immediately lowered; Hartak bent his head, pretending to be listening very attentively to Ormad. In a few moments, though, he shot the strangers a furtive glance which Ivan Semenovich intercepted: there was malevolence in his eyes, only slightly veiled by an attempt at a crooked smile.

He’s an enemy, and a very dangerous one, Ivan Semenovich thought. But would he dare to attempt anything here at the feast? Aren’t we his guests of honor?

Ivan Semenovich was now assailed with doubts and suspicions, but none of them was definite enough to call for immediate action. Besides he was somewhat distracted by the explosion of Scythian music — the tambourines and fifes again. But this time it was a cheerful, dancing tune played at a fast tempo and accompanied by the ringing of swords. The Scythians who had been sitting closest to the dais moved hastily aside to make room in front for three lithe girls who ran up to the dais and began dancing.

The dancers seemed to be competing among themselves for the best performance. They alternated between light, barely touching the rugs with the toes of their little schoes, then leaping into the air and leaning low to the ground. The air was filled with the sounds of the tambourines and music of the fifes and encouraging shouts from the audience who were beating time by striking bowl against bowl or sword against sword.

Lida, who was fond of dancing, enjoyed the performance of the slender Scythian girls immensely, as, evidently, did all other guests.

Dmitro Borisovich, completely absorbed by the rare sight, murmured to himself: “Right… there’s a picture on one of the Kul-Obsk gold plates, dating back to the Scythian times… the same movements are depicted… easily recognized here… they must be typical movements of the Scythian dancing… like this one, for instance — with the hands and arms thrown back… and now…”

The music stopped abruptly. The dancers froze, rooted to the spot, achieving a remarkable effect: a sudden, almost stone-like immobility after a tempestuous dance with so many quick movements. Skolot made a sign and bowls, filled with oksugala, were brought for the dancers. The young Scythian girls, still short of breath, bowed to the chieftain, emptied the bowls unfalteringly, and ran away, accompanied by thunderous applause.

Ivan Semenovich glanced at Hartak — he was holding a cup of. oksugala but did not drink. The geologist could see that his hands were trembling. Hartak put the cup down; his eyes were fixed on something outside the ring of kibitkas. Ivan Semenovich followed the line of Hartak’s gaze and saw some movement in the distance; then he discerned a group of people approaching. He wondered who they could be.

He scrutinized Hartak’s face and was convinced that the approaching party were the people Hartak had been waiting for all this time. Hartak clenched his fingers and a nervous tic appeared on his face; his eyes were riveted to the approaching people.

Right then, Ivan Semenovich heard Lida’s disturbed voice:

“Look over there; Dorbatay’s headed this way!”

“And he has his priestesses with him,” Artem added, peering through the semi-darkness at the approaching group in the uneven light of the flickering torches.

“I wonder what’s brought him here,” Dmitro Borisovich added pensively.

The old soothsayer was already walking among the seated Scythians, headed for the dais, his deportment as solemn and dignified as before; it was as if he had never suffered the humiliating defeat at the hands of Artem. He walked, ignoring the drunken shouts, like a terrifying and ominous ghost, his scarlet cloak dragging after him on the ground, the tall conical hat, decorated with gold figurines of animals, pushed low over his eyebrows. There was a long staff in his hand with a gold owl perched on top.

The laughter and loud talking died down in Dorbatay’s wake, as though he was extinguishing them with his dark shadow. He was closely followed by priestesses and priests, all ceremoniously attired: the women in embroidered linen dresses and the men in short red cloaks with ornaments and daggers under their belts.

In the silence that had fallen over the gathering, some cheers of greeting were suddenly heard; they came from the group of wealthy Scythians. Varkan, who watched the soothsayer and his party with mounting apprehension, said to Dmitro Borisovich under his breath:

“It’s very suspicious… Dorbatay almost never comes to feasts. And no one expected him to come tonight… except, perhaps, for those bloated…”

Skolot assumed a dignified posture, waiting for the old soothsayer to arrive at the dais. Dorbatay ignored the fact that his arrival had completely changed the mood of the feast. That was probably what he had intended to do. But in any case, remaining quite composed, he came up to the dais, bowed low to Skolot, and began speaking in a loud voice, looking straight into the probing eyes of the chieftain, who was evidently somewhat nonplussed by the soothsayer’s unexpected arrival.

“Illustrious Skolot, and much beloved by the gods, accept my greetings! And famed and mighty strangers, sitting so close beside Skolot, I also extend greetings to you!”

“There seems to be some menace in his voice,” Dmitro Borisovich said to Varkan who was translating the words of the old soothsayer for the archeologist.

“These strangers are mighty and powerful indeed,” Dor- batay continued, “otherwise they would not have been granted the honor of occupying the sacred place by the chieftain, which is reserved, as is well-known, for only the most gallant and most famed warriors! These strangers are powerful indeed since they have managed to bend the chieftain to their will by forcing him to allow a strange woman to sit by his side, whereas by law, no woman has the right to sit beside the chieftain, because it is an offense to the gods! But as the gods are silent, that means that the strangers are omnipotent and free to do whatever they please. They are free to break our sacred age-old laws and customs. So I, a humble soothsayer, must perforce greet the powerful strangers!”

Ivan Semenovich bent over and whispered to Artem:

“Be on guard, but keep quiet! Not a single movement that could be regarded as provocative! I’m afraid things are coming to a head. Watch out, Artem, watch out! The danger, whenever and wherever it comes from, must not catch us unawares!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The old soothsayer shows himself an excellent actor in the one-man play telling stories of the past and then offering reconciliation to Skolot; the gold owl is dropped into the bowl of ok s u gal a and Dorbatay puts forward new demands; Skolot rises to his feet to refect them only to drop dead; Hartak becomes chieftain and lets Dorbatay have his way; whereupon the soothsayer promptly orders the strangers seized.

“Be on guard, Artem.”

Why was Ivan Semenovich warning him? Why hadn’t he explained anything? Could Dorbatay be scheming to do something right here at the feast? The question had to be left without answer, but the soothsayer’s expression was quite ominous indeed.

He was not the frightened old man, trembling and looking around despondently after the defeat at the altar two days before. No, now standing before Skolot was an imperious, self-assured, grave soothsayer uttering words of overt threats. Artem could not fail to see that the general gaiety of the Scythians had given way to an uneasy silence. Now it was hard to believe that only a short while before the Scythians had been laughing and giving the outlanders friendly glances, so complete was the reversal of the general mood after the arrival of Dorbatay. It also encouraged the group of the wealthy Scythians to make menacing noises! And Varkan had grown abruptly sullen, his hand clasping the hilt of his sword.

“Artem! Dorbatay’s got something nasty up his sleeve!” the young man heard Lida’s voice filled with apprehension.

“How can you tell?” Artem said attempting to sound casual and carefree. But there was too much strain in his voice to pass unnoticed.

“Why should you pretend?” she said reproachfully. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from me? Why are you treating me like a child? I can see very well what’s going on.”

Artem shrugged, not knowing what to say. The atmosphere had indeed become charged with menace, but there was nothing for the explorers to do except wait for further developments.

Dorbatay was still standing in front of the dais, leaning on the staff with the gold owl. He made a well-timed pause in his address, as if checking the impression his sinister words had made; then he continued, gradually raising his voice in the manner of an experienced orator:

“I also greet you, noble Hartak, son of the chieftain and heir apparent! I see that you are the only one here who has not been foolishly rejoicing, having felt the portentous breath of the wrathful gods. Accept my greetings, future chieftain! You are beloved of the gods! You hold sacred the ancient traditions of the Skolots. You will bring, in your time, much happiness to the Skolot people!”

A murmur ran through the crowd; the Scythians were stretching their necks to get a better view of Hartak who did his best to assume a dignified posture worthy of Dorbatay’s praise. He did not achieve much, as his head was bent sideways and his eyes were blinking timorously; besides, he had trouble of keeping them open.

One of the hunters must have said something not very flattering about Hartak and the soothsayer must have heard it, because he wheeled round abruptly, raised his staff, and cried out wrathfully:

“Who dares to gainsay me? Let him remember then that he speaks against the gods! I, the humble soothsayer Dorbatay, call upon the gods to witness that I heard their awesome voice last night! The gods told me and bound me to tell you — and the earth quaked from their voice! — : ‘Go, and impress upon your people that our blessing is with the wise Skolot and his son, the noble Hartak! Make sure the people remember this!’ These words from the gods came to me amidst terrible thunder and flames from which I, your humble soothsayer, had to shade my face!”

“Wasn’t it with my help that the gods told him all this?” Artem said mockingly but in a very low voice after he had heard the translation.

“I came here,” Dorbatay continued, “because I wanted to listen to the story of wise old Ormad along with everyone else. Unfortunately I have missed it. But now I want to tell you something that I have been reminded of by the gods. I want to tell a tale from the glorious past of the Skolot people. And if the wise chieftain Skolot will deign to allow me, I will do as I have been bidden by the gods!”

He raised his hands into the air and froze in his favorite posture, his eyes half-closed, as though listening to the voice of the gods.

“The old creap’s playing his role excellently!” Dmitro Borisovich could not help exclaiming. “Isn’t he, Ivan Semenovich? I wonder what it is he’s going to tell them? It may be very interesting. What if it is something that is somehow connected with the histories of Herodotus and other ancient historians?”

The geologist did not say anything in reply. There was something else on his mind at the moment. Dorbatay lowered his long wrinkled hands at last and looked Skolot straight in the eye:

“I am waiting for your permission to speak, o chieftain! And I hope it will be granted!”

“Tell your story,” Skolot said rather curtly without returning the stare. He must have felt that the soothsayer was playing his game with some definite and important purpose in mind. The chieftain shifted his eyes to Varkan to make sure Varkan had a firm grip on the hilt of his sword. Varkan was on guard. Now, in a more relaxed tone, Skolot repeated turning his gaze to Dorbatay:

“Tell us what the gods have bidden you.”

The old soothsayer leaned on his staff and addressed both Skolot and all the Scythians at the same time, though it was evident that it was the gathering of hundreds of the Scythians that he intended his story for. The soothsayer’s withered fingers were clasping the staff firmly, and his raucous voice sounded especially harsh and insistent; he made no attempt to conceal his ill feelings:

“The sage Ormad recited the tale of how the courageous Skolots gained a victory over the mighty Persian army and how the haughty King Darius had to flee from our lands. I know this story well as it has been passed down to us through the ages for our edification. I wish to reiterate that the Skolots won only thanks to the aid and with the blessing of the gods. It was the gods who spoke to the wise chieftain Idanthyrsus and advised him as to how to achieve victory over King Darius. But what was the fate of Anacharsis, a kinsman of Idanthyrsus? Do you know his story, o Skolots? What happened to the man who forsook and rejected his gods? I remind you, descendants of the Darius-defeating Skolots, of the miserable plight of Anacharsis so that everyone of you will remember what awaits a man who forsakes the gods!”

“This sounds like flagrant religious propaganda to me,” Artem remarked rather mockingly as he heard the translation.

“Anacharsis was a wise man,” Dorbatay continued, “but he was not content to be the wisest of the Scythians. Anacharsis went to foreign countries where he thought he would acquire the wisdom of the foreign peoples, thus becoming the wisest of men. He travelled through many countries, staying in each of them for some time before he resolved to return home. But he was a different man by then: he had renounced the Skolot gods, having been converted to another faith. When he returned to the abode of the Skolots, he performed rites to a foreign goddess. Can there be a more grievous offense to our gods? Anacharsis converted many other Skolots to the worship of the foreign goddess. He would retire to the forest, taking other Skolots with him, and there they would perform the rites, playing timbrels, putting on Greek dress and doing obesiance to foreign images. So, what did the wise chieftain Saulius do when he had learnt about this outrage? He went to the forest with his warriors, saw the apostates thus employed, and shot them with his arrows, killing them all! Saulius did so because he had been inspired by the gods who gave him their blessing. Thus Saulius dealt with the offenders of our faith! Saulius was a courageous warrior and wise Skolot chieftain, beloved by the gods!”

Dorbatay’s voice sounded triumphant now, and his last words he openly spat out at Skolot.

“Saulius was a sage and knew what was proper and good for the Skolots. He knew that the happiness and wealth of the Skolots were in the hands of the gods who must never be insulted or forsaken and that their laws must be abided by. Do the Skolot people follow these precepts today? Does our wise chieftain Skolot remember them? He must because there is no other way…”

“But what was it that our gods reminded you of, o Dor- batay?” Skolot asked in annoyance; he felt that the treacherous soothsayer’s attack was aimed at him personally.

“Presently, the wise Skolot will hear about it, too,” Dorbatay replied quietly. “Once, the Skolot people lived through a period of hardships. The rivers ran dry and there was no more fish to be caught in them. An exceedingly hot summer killed the leaves on the trees and the grass in the fields, and the animals disappeared, so there was no game to hunt… Yes, the Skolots were once afflicted with such harsh times! Entire herds of horses perished from disease. And no prayers relieved the Skolots from this calamity because the gods had abandoned them, turning a deaf ear to all their supplications. Yes, the Skolots fell upon such hard times… Hot dry winds were blowing night and day, scorching the earth and bringing great misery to the Skolot people. Only the chieftain Scylas and his henchmen lived a carefree life, ignoring the great misfortune that had befallen the Skolot people who were dying in great numbers. Scylas was born of an Istrian woman who was not of our land. She taught him the Greek language and Greek customs, and on account of his education, Scylas did not respect the sacred customs of the Skolots and was much inclined to the Greek mode of life, their gods, and their profligacy. But the Skolot warriors and Skolot hunters and Skolot soothsayers were ignorant of all this, and thus were punished by the gods for their ignorance!”

Dorbatay’s voice rang out deeper and more ominously:

“But Scylas schemed treacherously to abolish the Skolot customs altogether and impose Greek ways on our people. He associated with Greek merchants and secretly went with them to the Greek town of Borysthenes, where he assumed Greek dress, caroused, and performed rites to the Greek gods. All these things Scylas did, keeping them a secret from his people. Then, casting away his shame altogether, he resolved to seek initiation into the Bacchic mysteries. To secure the initiation, he had a mansion built for himself in Borysthenes, again keeping this secret from the Skolots. But the Skolot gods showed forebearance and warned Scylas, giving him a chance to repent and change his ways. They hurled a bolt of lightning at his great mansion, setting it on fire. And the fire was so great that night turned into day, and Scylas himself barely escaped being burned alive in it. But the Skolots remained ignorant of these events, because they came to pass in a foreign, Greek town, and Scylas’s henchmen never disclosed his escapades! But even the gods’ admonitions did not make Scylas heed their commands. He was initiated into the Bacchic mysteries, may the very name of Bacchus be cursed! And the Skolots remained ignorant of what had caused the gods’ wrath, enduring all the misery and afflictions sent down on them by the wrathful deities… And so it continued until the outrage came out in a conversation between the Skolot soothsayers and Greek merchants who had come on a trading mission to the Skolot lands. This is how it came to pass. The Skolots reproached the Greeks for their Bacchic ceremonies:

“’How can you Greeks worship such a god, an embiber of wine, a carouser and profligate whose very name is offensive to mention? What kind of god is he? You believe that your Bacchus takes possession of you, is incarnate you when you are inebriated. We Skolots reject such gods! Our gods are stern but dignified!’

“The Greek merchants replied thus:

“’How can you, Skolots,’ they said mockingly, ‘laugh at our marvelous god Bacchus and us? We don’t want to argue with you over the merits of our Greek gods, but we’re surprised to hear you say that the Skolots reject such gods when we know that your most important men perform rites to our Bacchus?’

“But the Skolots did not believe the merchants, so the merchants said:

“’If you don’t believe us, we can prove it by telling you the name of one of them. He is called Scylas. He celebrates the rites to Bacchus and believes that Bacchus takes possession of him when he drinks intoxicating beverages at the rites.’

“But the Skolots were incredulous, because they held their chieftain in high regard. So, the merchants said derisively:

’“If you still persist in your disbelief, then follow us. We will show you your chieftain Scylas, wearing Greek dress, performing the rites to Bacchus, making libations, and drinking in his honor!’

“Then the Skolot elders followed the Greek merchants and saw with their own eyes their chieftain Scylas in Greek robes joining the Greeks in the Bacchanal and. getting drunk in honor of Bacchus, may his very name he cursed!

“The Skolot eiders were exceedingly wrathful. They immediately returned home and told the people everything they had seen. And as they spoke, their wrath grew:

’“Our chieftain Scylas has betrayed the Skolot gods and the Skolot customs. He wants us to worship the wicked Greek gods. He wants the Greeks, those impious foreigners, to be our masters. The Greeks come to our lands, make fun of our customs and sacred laws, and Scylas obliges them and places them in the most honored seats beside himself! The foreign tricksters twist us around their little fingers, and Scylas does nothing to prevent it but smiles at their conniving! We should depose of him as he is a traitor!’

“The entire Skolot people expressed their agreement with the elders suggestion, because one who is inclined to foreign customs and ways cannot be chieftain of the Skolots! The gods are sure to punish both such a chieftain and all the people along wilh him! It’s the primary duty of a chieftain to guard and maintain the sacred Skolot customs and not betray them! And if, when he goes astray and allows himself to be influenced by foreigners, then woe to ail the Skolots! Thunderbolts and huge rocks will be hurled down upon the Skolot heads from the heavens as a horrible punishment! That’s what the gods have revealed to me!”

Dorbatay came abruptly to an ominous halt. Dead silence reigned over the gathering; all the Scythians seemed to hold their breath as there was hardly anyone who did not understand the thinly veiled meaning of the old soothsayer’s message!

“I’m somewhat surprised Dorbatay has made such an open threat against Skolot,” Dmitro Borisovich said, fixing his stare at the soothsayer. “He didn’t even take the trouble to dress it as a hint. What he said concerns us and Skolot directly…”

Ivan Semenovich kept silent, though he was aware that his friends were eager to hear his assessment of the situation. But what could he really say when it was all too clear that the old soothsayer was once again trying to frighten if not Skolot himself then those Scythians who were credulous enough to be intimidated at the very mention of the wrath of the gods!

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.

“Look, Hartak’s trembling all over as if he were having a seizure!” Artem cried out in surprise.

“He must be in a mortal fear of something,” Lida said. Hartak was indeed trembling perceptibly; his face seemed filled with great fear; he clasped and unclasped his hands nervously, jerking his head as if chasing away an annoying fly. Dorbatay kept his disdainful gaze on him. At last Hartak managed to pull himself together — probably after he intercepted the piercing glare of the old soothsayer. Then Dorbatay again turned to Skolot:

“I hope you’re not greatly displeased with this small gift. It is surely much too modest for such a great and wise chieftain.”

Skolot looked up, his eyes still distrustful.

“I’m well pleased with the gift… provided it has been given as token of good will…”

Dorbatay said with a short dry laugh:

“I have given this sacred image to you with the blessing of the gods and before all your guests. How can such a gift be a token of anything but the most sincere good will?”

“That is very good, I must accept your assurances. What is it that you want to ask of me in return, Dorbatay?” Skolot asked. “According to tradition I cannot refuse you anything now. But mind you, there are certain things… or rather people… that I’d advise you not to ask for, because…”

The chieftain let the end of the sentence hang in the air and there was an all-too evident threat in his voice. Dmitro Borisovich commented:

“Did you get that hint? Skolot wants the soothsayer to understand that he is not to ask that the strangers be given to him in exchange for his gift. The chieftain is keeping his word to protect us, as you see.”

“But how long will he be able to do it?” Ivan Semenovich asked pensively.

Hearing the chieftain’s words made Dorbatay assume a pose of hurt pride:

“I’m not going to ask for anything valuable, my brother Skolot. And you know very well that I don’t need anything. It would not be proper for a humble soothsayer to ask for anything for himself personally. I only want to fulfill the will of the gods. It was the gods who bade me tell you and all the Skolots today of the fate of the traitor Scylas. I have done so. The gods also bade me make peace with you today and make you a gift of the sacred image. I have done this, too. But the gods also advised me as to what I must ask of you, o Skolot! You cannot refuse me, because you will be refusing the gods! You must fulfill the will of the gods and the sacred tradition of the Skolots!”

The old chieftain shook his head:

“Let’s not argue, Dorbatay. I have warned you. Now tell me what it is you ask!”

Dorbtay’s crackling voice now sounded sharp and menacing:

“The gods demand that you give them the strangers!”

And he emphasized his words by pointing to them with his hand.

“I will not let you have them,” Skolot said with determination. But as soon as he had uttered these words, a discontented murmur arose from the Scythians who had been worked up by Dorbatay and then by the elders and the rich, and were much displeased with their chieftain’s reply.

Dorbatay, who stood still facing the dais, said, with a sweeping gesture of his hand:

“Look around, my brother Skolot, and take heed! Ask the elders, ask the people. What will they tell you? You’ll hear their indignation — indignation against you. Take heed!”

Skolot looked around and saw the gazes of the crowd, directed at him, expectant and anticipative. The Scythians watched the confrontation with avidity, waiting for its outcome, weighing the chances of the powerful contenders. But,one thing was clear: the man who had the miracle-working strangers in his power would eventually overcome his opponent. And Skolot, realizing that, was adamant in his refusal.

“No, you can’t have them!”

“The gods command it!” the soothsayer suddenly shrieked. “The gods command that you make this sacrifice to them! The gods have already threatened to destroy the Skolots with thunderbolts! That was a terrifying warning! The strangers profaned the sacred altar; they mocked our gods and me, their humble priest! Only with the blood of the strangers can the gods be placated and the offense expiated. Give us, o Skolot, the strangers, or the wrath of gods will smite you, the terrible wrath of the omnipotent gods!” The soothsayer’s voice broke into a furious, piercing scream. He seemed to have gone berserk; he flailed his arms wildly, shaking his head and foaming at the mouth. His lips went livid, he stamped his feet and screamed:

“Give us the strangers who have defiled our sacred places!”

“No,” said the chieftain, shaking his head.

“The gods will destroy you, Skolot! Remember Scylas! You are betraying our gods! Change your mind! Give us the strangers!”

“No!”

Abruptly, Dorbatay stopped shrieking and fell silent. And all the Scythians present fell silent, too. The pause that ensued was an ominous one, filled with great tension. The silence was broken by Dorbatay, his voice sounding quite different now — solemn and prayerlike:

“o gods, great and just gods! I beseech you to listen to me, your humble servant!”

The old soothsayer again raised his arms into the air. He lowered his voice and spoke in a very loud whisper, so loud in fact that it could be heard easily all through the crowd:

“Great and wrathful gods, I beseech you, I pray that you will hear the voice of your meek servant, Dorbatay! I have told Skolot all that you bade me. I have warned him, I have done all I could. It grieves me to think of the retribution that is forthcoming, of the terrible punishment that you will dispense, o gods! But may this punishment not touch either me or the courageous Skolot people! May this punishment fall only on the one who violates your sacred laws and disregards your commands!”

Ivan Semenovich noticed that Dorbatay shot a glance at Skolot when he stopped talking, as though checking to see what impression his words were making on the old chieftain. Skolot was silent, his brows knit. Dorbatay began speaking again, alternately lowering his voice almost to a whisper only to raise it to an unbearable high-pitched shrieking:

“I beg of you, o gods, not to punish the innocent people, not to destroy them with your scorching thunderbolts in your wrath! If in your ire, you must punish someone, then strike down the one who has done you wrong!”

He fell silent; his raised arms began trembling as if with fatigue. A tense silence settled in, and then this silence was shattered when someone, inspired either by enthusiasm or fear, shouted:

“Give the strangers to the gods, o Skolot! Give them to the gods!”

This shout served as signal for the rest, and the crowd burst into a wild clamor which strongly resembled an incantation:

“Give them to the gods! Give them to the gods! Skolot, give them to the gods! Don’t provoke the wrath of the gods!”

In this undulating uproar, several voices could be easily distinguished for their unremitting fervor: they were the voices of the nobles who had discarded their unusual reserve and were shouting the loudest, inciting the rest of the Scythians to do the same:

“Do what Dorbatay tells you to, o Skolot! Give the strangers to the gods! Give the strangers to the gods to appease their wrath!”

Skolot sprang to his feet. Standing on the dais, tall and of forbidding appearance, he said to Dorbatay who stood opposite him:

“So this is how you understand reconciliation, Dorbatay! You’re again instigating strife among my people! You have not given up your pernicious scheming, but you cannot scare me with your frenzied shouting and imprecations because I know their true worth very well. Now, listen to me, my courageous warriors and hunters, listen to me, all Skolot people! I will now disclose the secret of Dorbatay, this.wicked and worthless man! Listen…”

His voice suddenly broke; he clasped his throat with his hand; he was breathing heavily, as though short of breath. He opened his mouth wide, gasping for air; then he tore open the collar of his ceremonial dress.

The eyes of the old soothsayer flashed with joy. He began shouting hysterically in a shrill voice:

“The gods are punishing Skolot! Look, warriors and hunters! Look, everyone! The gods have stopped Skolot from speaking! Punish the apostate, o gods, if you must, but do not harm the innocent people. o gods, punish the violator of our sacred laws as once you punished Anacharsis and Scylas!”

Skolot’s face had gone deathly white. He swayed; his hands groped for support. With a tremendous effort Skolot said:

“Wait… now… Ill tell you…”

Dorbatay’s triumphant roaring drowned out the chieftain’s words:

“The gods are punishing the backslider! The gods have struck Skolot in their terrible wrath!”

The Scythians began pushing toward the dais but no one dared to come too close.

Skolot made another attempt to say something and again failed. He made visible efforts to regain control of himself; he raised his hand and opened his mouth to speak but not a word passed his lips. A moment later, the old chieftain collapsed, sprawling on the ground. Several warriors rushed to his aid, but they were stopped by a harsh bellow from Dorbatay:

“Halt, fools! Stay where you are unless you want to be stricken by the gods! Do not approach the apostate punished so terribly by the gods!”

They stood still, irresolute, shifting their gaze from Dorbatay, who had assumed the posture of a supreme master \vith the power to decide the matters of life and death, to Skolot who was lying motionless on the rug. The gold helmet had fallen from his head and rolled to the side; his face was ashen, and his eyes had rolled up so that only the whites showed; his arms, spread wide, jerked spasmodically.

“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.

Dmitro Borisovich, in spite of his forebodings concerning the future and his realization that after the murder of Skolot their own lives were in jeopardy, could not allow his archeological enthusiasm to be dampened by his worries. The archeologist took in and catalogued in his brain everything he saw, every little detail: The Scythians offering up their prayer! Fascinating! No archeologist or historian had ever seen such an exciting scene before; no scholar had ever eyewitnessed the ceremony of the proclamation of a new Scythian chieftain! And there was Skolot’s funeral to observe as yet! Ah, the archeologist wished he had more than one pair of eyes and more than one pair of ears!

“Keep your eyes open, young man, take a good look!” Dmitro Borisovich said in an agitated whisper. “You’ll never see anything like it again in your life!”

“I probably won’t… because I’m not sure how long I’m going to live… or you either, for that matter,” Artem muttered in irritation; he was annoyed at the professional enthusiasm of the archeologist who seemed oblivious to the grave danger hanging over them.

Ivan Semenovich was intently watching everything happening around them to assess the situation and draw some conclusions. The explorers, with Varkan standing close by, were surrounded by the soothsayer’s henchmen and chief Scythians, their daggers and swords unsheathed, evidently to forestall any attempt on the part of the explorers at escape. The warriors, who had obviously been swayed by the soothsayer to change allegiance to him, positioned themselves so that they separated the strangers from the rest of the crowd. If earlier an attempt at escape was not entirely unthinkable, now it was absolutely out of the question. There was no one to turn to for help either. Dorbatay had firmly re-established his influence over the Scythians; he seemed to have taken all the necessary steps to foil the strangers’ attempts to escape. At the slightest suspicious movement, all the warriors and hunters would rush at the strangers with their swords and spears.

Ivan Semenovich was racking his brain for a solution: what could they do under the circumstances? Who would help them? Only one thing gave him some hope: weren’t they supposed to be the guests of Hartak, too? But the chance that he would honor their status as guests was dismally small: Dorbatay would surely do something about that…

“Artem, do you happen to have any primers with you?”

“No, I don’t, Ivan Semenovich.”

“What a pity!”

“I used some of them at the altar…”

“Yes, I know, but not all of them.”

“No, the rest are in the knapsack. I didn’t think they would be of any use at this feast. How was I to know…”

The geologist did not say anything else; the young man was not, of course, to blame for negligence — if Ivan Semenovich himself had not foreseen such a turn of events, how could he expect Artem to have done so?

The prayer ended. Now Dorbatay could rest assured that none of the warriors or hunters would dare express any disapproval over Hartak’s elevation to the chieftaincy. The soothsayer had surely known what he was doing when he began the prayer. When it was over, Hartak was firmly established in the eyes of the god-fearing Scythians as chieftain with full rights.

There was only one thing for Dorbatay to settle now: what to do with the strangers? Dorbatay seemed ready to tackle this problem as well. The soothsayer was not likely to have them killed right then and there — especially the young magician who had publicly disgraced him. It would not be in keeping with the inspired and very effective performance he had just put on. They were surely to die, these conceited strangers who had halfwittedly rejected his most superb conditions! But they were to die in a manner that would consolidate his power. Lida should probably be spared, as she could be useful in manipulating Hartak.

Dorbatay now looked quite self-assured; in a very loud voice, so loud in fact that it carried to the outer fringes of the crowd, he said to Hartak, bowing to him and assuming a very deferential air:

“Now, illustrious Hartak, wise and mighty chieftain of the Skolots…”

He made a pause, a short but well-timed pause imbued with irony, which was only emphasized by the solemnity of the address. This miserable puppet who was eager to do anything to please him, Dorbatay called a “wise and mighty chieftain”! It did sound like thinly veiled mockery.

“Now, illustrious Hartak, wise and mighty chieftain of the Skolots,” Dorbatay repeated, “we must fulfill the will of the gods. On behalf of the gods, o Hartak, demand that the cursed strangers be delivered into my hands. Do you agree to give them to the gods?”

Dorbatay had hardly had time to finish when Hartak obediently said:

“Yes, I agree!”

“But let us not forget that they are still your guests of honor,” Dorbatay continued, an implacable smile playing on his lips. “In accordance with our sacred customs we must be hospitable to our guests as long as they are our guests. We shall not deviate from this tradition. Not a single hair of their heads will be touched as long as they remain our guests. But on the other hand we cannot let them go free as they, magicians that they are, can envoke help of their gods and do us harm. So, they must be bound hand and foot and put in a safe place! And tomorrow, when they will not be considered your guests any longer, o Hartak — since they are your guests only for tonight — we shall decide their fate. Do you, warriors and hunters, give your approval of this?”

Loud and chaotic approval was instantaneously given; the voices of the nobles were the loudest.

“Yes, yes, that’s what should be done, Dorbatay!”

The soothsayer turned to his henchmen:

“Bind them!”

The henchmen, evidently still in great fear of the strangers, stepped forward reluctantly, watching for any suspicious movement: didn’t the strangers have the power to cause fire and thunder to leap from the ground and strike any offender down? And didn’t they have the dreaded poskina hidden somewhere to come to their aid at any moment?

But unfortunately Diana could not come to the explorers’ aid, as Artem had tied her to the kibitka even before they had gone on their tour of the Scythian camp in the morning, deciding that the dog would cause unnecessary complications, and then they had had no time to go back to the kibitka and fetch her along when they went to the feast.

The soothsayer’s henchmen were slowly but inexorably closing in on the strangers, encouraged by the cheering of the elders; they held the ropes ready, the points of their swords and daggers forward.

The strangers huddled closer together; they were quite defenseless.

Artem looked at Dorbatay to see a malicious smile playing on his wicked face.

The soothsayer could celebrate a victory!