Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

A young man, also richly attired, stepped out from the crowd around the altar. His face bore some resemblance to the chieftain’s, but differed in that it was obnoxious, suspicious and insincere. The young man did not walk in a straightforward manner — there was something crablike in his gait. His right shoulder was hunched forward. The mounted chieftain lowered his head a little as though taking a better look at the young man, but his face remained impassive, with no expression of greeting or recognition.

The young man drew closer and made obeisance to the chieftain who stared motionlessly at him. The people around them grew quiet. The young man gave the chieftain a sidelong glance as though he feared a sudden blow. But the chieftain only waved his hand in dismissal and turned away. The young man, as if he had expected this to happen, ran aside and stopped, still looking timidly at the rider in the gold helmet.

Then the chieftain looked back for the first time. A rider immediately rushed to his side — he must have been waiting for this sign all along. The chieftain made a lazy raking movement with his hand; the rider turned his horse around and galloped back, shouting something.

Artem, highly intrigued by these maneuvers, shifted a little to be closer to Dmitro Borisovich, and asked in a barely audible voice:

“What is it they’re shouting? What language is it?” Without turning his head, the archeologist answered, also under his breath:

“It must be Scythian.”

“Do you understand it?”

“Of course not.”

“Why? You don’t know it?”

“No one knows Scythian… but wait, there’s…”

“You two, shut up, will you?” Ivan Semenovich stopped them sharply, giving them a stern look.

About a dozen riders were driving a group of people forward. The folks in this group were very different in appearance from the riders and crowd that had been waiting for the procession.

First, their dress differed; they were wearing various kinds of clothing; some had the same type of waistcoats but wore cloaks on top. Others were bareheaded, whereas all the riders and those in the crowd waiting by the altar had either helmets or hats on.

The group on foot looked exhausted. They were walking slowly, dragging their feet; some were limping, their heads bent. No one dared to raise his head; some glanced back in alarm each time one of the riders prodded them with a spear or simple charged them with their mounts.

“They’re captives, aren’t they?”

They were undoubtedly captives, several dozen of them, captured elsewhere by the cavalry and driven here on foot.

The old man who had been standing all this time before the altar with arms raised, viewed the captives with interest. For a short time, he lost his solemn, dignified air, even turning to the chieftain with some question. But the chieftain did not reply. He probably had not heard for he did not even turn his head in the other’s direction. The old man by the altar made a wry face, and, probably to hide it, he bent over.the altar right away.

Artem heard Dmitro Borisovich say in the voice of a man greatly nonplussed by what he was witnessing:

“He’s a soothsayer! A Scythian soothsayer! He doesn’t look androgyne though… I can’t believe my own eyes!”

The captives were ordered to halt before the altar. The riders, spears and axes ready, pressed the captives, who made no attempt to resist, into a closer huddle. Once again the song of triumph soared to the sky along with another volley of sharp arrows. The captives shrank in fear as the arrows whizzed just above their heads.

The old soothsayer walked away from the altar. He again raised his hands into the air and mumbled something, probably a prayer. Abruptly breaking off in the middle of a word, he addressed the chieftain solemnly, pointing to the captives with his hand. Apparently the soothsayer was demanding something. The chieftain turned to look at him, his face acquiring a sterner expression, his hand gripping the hilt tighter. But the next instant he spoke quietly and imperiously. He said only a few words but that was enough:

he obviously agreed with the soothsayer; he did not contradict him. The soothsayer stood straighter, looking haughty and jubilant.

At the sign of the chieftain, two riders picked two men and one woman from the group of captives, huddled by the altar. They seemed to have deliberately picked the most exhausted captives who could barely stand. The three, prodded by the riders, went submissively and without resistance to the soothsayer; even the way they walked showed that they had stopped caring about anything. The soothsayer, displeased with something, stared at them, his hands curled into fists.

For the first time, an open and frank smile appeared on the face of the chieftain in the gold helmet. His warriors smiled, too. The soothsayer was standing motionless at the altar, staring at the captives in a rage, his dry, angular face twisted into a grimace, his lips moving in nervous jerks. Then he shifted his gaze to the chieftain who seemed to be watching the soothsayer’s every movement. The soothsayer was about to say something, but then changed his mind, and turned back to the altar.

’’What’s going on here?” Artem asked in a low voice. “Are they at war with each other?”

But he fell silent the moment he felt the angry stare of the implacable Ivan Semenovich.

The chieftain let fall a few short phrases, pointing at the old soothsayer, his remarks evoking loud laughter from the warriors. This guffawing was too much for the soothsayer — it drove him into a frenzy. He made a swift step toward the chieftain and began speaking furiously, alternately pointing to himself, at the altar, and at the three captives who had been led up to him. He waved his arms frenziedly. Abruptly he stopped and pointed skywards. There was a menacing edge to his hoarse voice.

“He’s dissatisfied with the captives he’s been given and threatens the wrath of the gods for such a pitiful offering,” Artem heard Lida’s voice. “Is that it, Dmitro Borisovich?”

“Looks like it. But — ssh! Let’s see what happens next.” The archeologist was completely absorbed in what was going on before their eyes.

The soothsayer fell silent, still pointing to the skies. Then the firm voice of the chieftain rang out, which sounded like an imperious command in the utter silence. The chieftain said only a few words, but they were sufficient. The sooth sayer seemed to shrink, his arrogance disappearing almost without a trace. He squeezed out a few indistinct words of reply, listlessly turned to the altar and beckoned to someone to come over to him.

Three burly women, wearing linen dresses embroidered with gold thread, came forward holding daggers in their hands. Bronze ornaments were dangling from their felt hats; the sharp-pointed daggers were drawn. The soothsayer pointed to the captives beside the altar, who could barely stand on their feet. The three armed women immediately approached them, daggers at the ready, and grabbed them by the hands. The next moment they were dragging them to the base of the altar. A desperate wailing rose to the sky. Exhausted as the captives were, they sensed the mortal danger, and began resisting. But what chance did they have against the burly armed women, these haggard, weary captives?

“It’s disgusting!” The indignation broke from Lida. “These women helping the repulsive soothsayer!”

Dmitro Borisovich murmured to himself as though he had never heard Lida’s indignant words.

“Yes, yes, that’s how it should be! Scythian women were the priests! Women, not men, yes, that’s how it was. It’s strange though that the high priest, this soothsayer, is not a woman but an old man, albeit wearing a woman’s dress… Priest he is, but why male?”