Tarasov has no time to return her gaze: he is dragged through the gate into an area of narrow, sandy ground surrounded by huge blocks of wood, like an old Roman arena. A pole stands at the far end. The guards drag him to a chest-deep hole dug into the ground close to the pole, and the major spots the remains of a human being not far away. The head and torso have been smashed to a bloody pulp, presumably by the stones that are lying around the corpse.
Thus far, Tarasov has faced his fate bravely, but upon seeing the hole and the corpse, he pulls together all his strength to resist.
“Not like this!” he screams. “I did nothing bad to you!”
“Save your breath for later,” Hillbilly says. “As an officer, you will be spared of the hole. It’s the big man’s orders.” He binds Tarasov tightly to the pole. “Die bravely, Spetsnaz.”
The rope cuts into Tarasov’s flesh as he desperately tries to free his wrists. The guards have done their work welclass="underline" no matter how he struggles, his efforts are all in vain. All he can do is stare at the wooden gate in front of him. He knows that whoever comes through it will bring his death.
“Brothers and sisters of the Tribe!” The voice sounding over the crowd is cruel and cold. “We have here a soldier from an army that once brought death to your people. They laid the way for the destruction that came down upon you at the hands of those who call themselves the students of God. Now they are back to spy on us. Tell me, what is the just punishment for such trespassers?”
“Death,” the crowd roars.
“Brave women of the Tribe, you who have suffered so much! The time of badal has come. Cherish the sweetness of justice!”
Angry female voices hiss from behind the gate.
Maybe they are discussing who will throw the first stone. I must free myself before they come. I won’t make it but at least I’ll die putting up a fight.
The shackles still hold, remaining intact as he helplessly watches the gate open. Led by an elderly crone, dozens of women enter the Pit with faces as hard as the stones in their hands. A cold breeze stirs up the black scarf of the leader as she stands motionless in front of him, her hand clutching the stone she intends to throw at his head.
She looks like a dark angel avenging a sin I have never committed. So be it. Let this be done.
Tarasov raises his head and looks into the woman’s dark eyes, preparing to die with her scornful face as the last thing he sees. The woman’s breast rises as she draws breath before unleashing a scream. But it is just two words that leave her lips.
“Zendeh bogzaaridash!”
The crowd suddenly falls silent.
Tarasov has already prepared his mind for the pain of the first strike when the woman drops her stone to the ground. An astonished murmur spreads throughout the crowd like a wave. The women behind her look at each other. She looks up to the Colonel and shouts out again.
“Man behesh tarahhom kardam!”
Her wrinkled face radiates confidence and pride as she waits for the Colonel to respond. From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees him rising from his seat. The eyes of the Colonel and the woman lock, as if wrestling in a contest of willpower.
After a long minute, the Colonel nods. In reply, the woman bows her head in a sign of respect, covers her face with her scarf and turns around. She leaves the Pit with slow and dignified steps, ignoring the crowd that now erupts with disappointment.
The two guards hurry to the pole and untie him before dragging him out of the Pit.
“Don’t be too happy,” Polak tells him, “I would sooner die than face what the Beghum has in mind for you.”
Realizing he might yet live, Tarasov’s stomach lurches seconds after the wave of relief hit him and, unable to control his mind and body, he retches as the wooden gate slams closed behind them.
After giving him some time to recover, the ‘brothers’ pour water on his face to clean him up before taking him to a mud house nestled on the hillside. It is bigger than the others and clay pots stand along the walls with colorful herbs planted inside.
Stepping through the wooden door decorated with a jackal’s skull bearing strange, painted symbols, Tarasov detects a refreshing herbal scent, an odor so pure and sweet that it brings tears to his eyes. The two guards remain outside.
“Good luck, Spetsnaz!” Hillbilly whispers, while Polak remains silent and crosses himself.
With his mind full of doubts about what is in store for him, Tarasov enters the house.
Rubbing his chafed wrists, he wanders further inside and finds himself in a cool, tidy room smelling of herbs, spice and other exotic, but not unpleasant aromas that linger in the air. The earthen floor is covered by tribal carpets. Smaller rugs adorn the white walls among shelves holding a disorderly host of pots, jars and jugs. On another shelf, strange-looking containers are arranged with a few tools among them, their purpose remaining a mystery to the major, except for a copper mortar and pestle.
Facing him is the woman who saved him from the Pit. She sits on a bench beside the hearth, with a girl sitting at her feet. Tarasov recognizes her as the girl who tended to the Colonel’s wound. He wipes the tears and dust from his eyes so he can see her better. From under the scarf covering her hair and the tattoo resembling a gently undulating line on her forehead, a pair of dark green eyes study him curiously. Tarasov guesses that she could be around twenty years old. He can’t help himself shudder again, like he had the first time he saw her scarred face, though now it was for a different reason.
Her eyes…stunning, but old beyond her years.
She is wearing a long, blue gown and a leather belt which holds a long, curved knife. Its scabbard and grip are adorned with precious stones. As she sits there with her legs crossed, her gown permits view of her bare feet and ankles that are encircled by delicate golden bangles.
Tarasov looks at the bare skin as if mesmerized, and finds it hard to turn his eyes elsewhere. The girl feels his stare. After a long minute, making a face that has embarrassment and nonchalance equally written upon it, she covers her feet with the gown.
“Dokhtram tarjomeh mikond”, the elderly women says, “chun man englisi sohbt nemikonam.”
“Beghum not speak English. I will translate,” the girl tells him in slightly broken English, but her voice, surprisingly deep and sultry, causes Tarasov to ignore her mistakes.
“My English is not perfect either,” he rasps, his throat dry and sore from inhaled dust and retching.
“Your knees are trembling. Sit down,” the girl says. Tarasov gladly complies. “Warriors brought you here because we have tradition. If one woman says not to kill the man in Pit, he stays alive.”
“I am… very grateful.”
“First you drink our water.” The older woman passes an earthenware jug to Tarasov, and he greedily gulps down the cool, pure water inside. “Now you are guest of Beghum Madar. She wants speaking to you.”
The woman looks at Tarasov and starts talking in a language he cannot fathom. Now, without rage distorting her features, it appears to him that she isn’t an elderly crone at all. Indeed, she can only just be beyond the years when her face would still have retained some of the attractiveness of her youth, and Tarasov becomes aware of a slight similarity between the two women. While she speaks, the younger woman keeps her eyes on the major. Her gaze discomforts him. There is a quality to it that he can’t stand for too long.