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.