Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

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…”