Several men stepped out of the crowd to meet the procession. They were evidently people of some rank, for their dress was embellished with gold ornaments, and they carried no weapons except for short swords and ceremonial axes. One of them, an old man with gray hair and a long beard wearing a robe very much like a woman’s dress, raised his hands and shouted something in a hoarse voice. The crowd and the procession responded immediately with similar shouts. Then the old man turned around, raised his hand in a salute before the peculiar object of twigs and branches the explorers had noticed earlier.
“It must be their sacrificial altar,” Artem whispered excitedly.
“Yes, it looks like the Scythian altar was made of twigs!” Dmitro Borisovich replied no less excitedly.
The procession was now quite close, and the first rows of riders could be seen in detail. They were well armed, carrying rectangular shields of hide and studded with ornamental bronze figures of animals. The higher ranking riders — which fact could be determined by their more elaborate clothing — carried round shields with an oval cut into the top for a face.
But Artem’s attention had already focused on the strikingly looking horseman.
He was a burly, dignified man with a long gray beard, sitting majestically on his elaborately festooned steed, holding the reins in one hand, the other resting on the golden hilt of his short sword. On his head was a round golden helmet; shining gold ornaments adorned his dress: a heavy pendant of plaited gold wire on his chest; a bracelet on the wrist of the hand holding the reins — everything pointed to his being a man of highest rank. Several younger riders moving right behind him were holding the shiny figures above his head. There were panthers, deer, leaping lions and eagles with their wings spread perched on long spears. The distinguished rider was looking straight ahead, sitting in great dignity and stateliness on his brown mount, not paying attention to anything or anyone around him.
“He must be the chieftain of the tribe… the supreme leader…” Artem heard the voice of Dmitro Borisovich, muffled with excitement. “He’s returning from a raid with his fellow Scythians. It’s incredible to be seeing such a thing with my own eyes!”
“Shh… Shh…” Ivan Semenovich again cut him short. “Be quiet!”
The old man who had earlier stepped out of the crowd, made a few more steps toward the riders, without lowering his raised arms. When there were only a few steps separating him and the chieftain, the latter stopped his horse with an almost imperceptible movement of his hand. All the other riders immediately stopped, too. Only those on foot continued moving, drawing nearer.
The old man with raised hands cried out something in a gutteral voice, probably, words of welcome. The riders responded with shouts of greeting. Axes and swords flashed in the air; the figures of lions, eagles and panthers stirred above the head of the chieftain. The only person who remained immobile and silent was the chieftain who, in the same detached and aloof manner sat astride horse, his hand on the hilt of the sword.
The old man, his arms still raised, cried out something once again, drawing discordant shouting in response from both the riders and the crowd. It was only then that the chieftain seemed to awaken; he made an imperious gesture with his hand as though beckoning someone to come up to him.
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.