17
IAGO
7,598 SB, Scythia
700 BC, in what is now known as Ukraine
I deduced that I was in an enclosed space from the semidarkness surrounding me. A snub-nosed man with a large, jutting chin was leaning over me with a concerned look on his face.
“Finally you wake up, Hellene,” he said. He spoke as if he had pebbles in his mouth, but I was delighted that we could understand each other.
I looked around me quickly and saw that I was in some kind of circular tent with walls made of reeds and mud. The light was filtering through irregular slits, and I could partially see what was outside. The interior contained no furnishings apart from some old skins scattered over the floor, which I imagined occasionally served as pallets. Luckily, I recognized our packs. I tried to raise myself by leaning on my elbows, but when I moved, all my bruises caused me such agony again that I gave up.
He leaned over even farther, but when I opened my eyes he drew back in fright. “What’s the matter with your eyes?” he shouted. “Are they damaged?”
“My eyes?” I repeated. “I think my eyes are fine. What do you see in them?”
“They’re a strange color. They’re blue.”
So that was the problem.
“I was born like this,” I explained for the umpteenth time. “Everyone in my mother’s hometown had eyes like mine. I presume such eyes haven’t been seen in these parts yet.”
“Of course not,” he answered, approaching cautiously. “Now I understand why they left you alive. You’re exotic.”
“And who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Ponticus, from the tribe of the Argippæans. My family and I were living without too many concerns on the far side of the River Tyras. My people are peaceful and considered sacred by the neighboring tribes. You may never have seen one of us before, because we’re not in the habit of traveling. We’re all bald from birth, even our women, and many come to us in search of sage advice or a quiet life, as did my father, a Hellene like you, whom my mother and her family eventually took in. That’s why I speak your language. I had only known our gentle way of life until some Scythians laid waste to everything I knew. My life was saved only because the wife of their chief wanted me to teach her your language.”
“I need you to do something for me. Could you bring me that pack over there?”
The man did as I asked and started emptying the contents. When he took out the aloe, I asked him to give it to me, but he ignored my request and started to apply it to my head of his own accord.
“An ugly wound,” he commented, “and your companion hasn’t fared any better.”
“Have you seen my brother?” I asked eagerly.
“They captured another Hellene. I assume he’s your brother because when you were unconscious, he tried to revive you. They brought him back a short while ago, and he was in some considerable pain. He told me they’d applied poultices and torn out all the hair on his body. Not long after that, Olbia demanded his presence. I know nothing further of him or his fate.”
Hektor was nearby. I clung to that hope. “Olbia, the woman who leads this army of old men and cripples?”
“She’s the one in charge now. Her husband, Kelermes, is the leader of the tribe. He set off just a few months ago, heading west with all the healthy men; they’re always having disputes with the Massagetae. This tribe is nomadic, but when the men are on the move, those left behind usually camp along the shore of some river and wait however long it takes for them to return—years sometimes.”
“Are you a prisoner as well?”
He looked at me as you would look at a child and calmly shook his head. “That’s what you think? That we’re prisoners? No, my friend. We’re slaves, and the most likely outcome is that they’ll sell the two of you at the market in Borystene as soon as you recover from your wounds, unless you can provide something of use or interest to Olbia.”
The last thing I needed was to have to rack my brains trying to find some way of not being sold into slavery, but I had no idea what had become of my father, nor did I know if my destiny would be better or worse in Borystene if I were to change owners.
“Tell me about the Scythians. Not what’s in the legends, but what you’ve seen and experienced in your time with them.”
“The Scythians who captured you belong to the nobility, to the warrior elite. They’re the only ones who ride horses, and they do it even before they have learned to walk. But their passion for those animals costs them dearly: they are the most sterile of men, I think because of the constant jolting of their crotch. And most of them bleed like women, though not just once a month, but constantly.”
“How is that possible? I’ve never come across anything like that.”
“They bleed from their private parts; you can see for yourself,” he said, indicating that I should look through one of the cracks in the wall.
I stretched myself as far as I could and peered out at the campsite. I recognized some of the old men who had tied me up. One of them was walking between the tents, and when I spotted the stain on his trousers, I could see that Ponticus was telling the truth.
“What about their reputation for being bloodthirsty? Is everything they say true?”
“Forget what they say; the reality is far worse. They usually use the skulls of their enemies as drinking vessels for their wine. They saw off the top of the skull and send it to be covered in gold leaf. But they combine their love of art with the most primitive savagery. They pull off their enemies’ scalps after making a cut from ear to ear like this,” he said, illustrating his statement by running a finger across the nape of my neck. “They knead the pieces of skin they pull off between their hands until they achieve the consistency they’re after, and then they hang them from their horses’ manes. Only after this can they ask their chief for their share of the booty. Some of them skin the entire body—”
“That’s enough, Ponticus. I’ve got the idea.”
Just then my father came into the tent and rushed to me anxiously.
“Brother, are you all right?” he asked me.
“Somewhat bruised, but I’ll get better soon. What about you? Let me have a look at you.”
He was naked and his skin was reddened and totally hairless, apart from what was growing on his head.
“You look like a salmon,” I said. “Is that how the Scythians torture people?”
“They were, in fact, preparing me for Olbia. She’s . . . a very refined woman with sophisticated tastes. I thought she’d be a barbarian, but I have to admit that I’m surprised. She has a tireless curiosity about everything that comes from our colonies. And—”
“But what’s happened?” I interrupted him with growing impatience. “What did she say to you?”
“What did she say to me? To be honest, when I walked in the only two words she uttered were, ‘Satisfy me.’ ”
Enough, already , I thought, rolling my eyes.
“Your brother has just found his usefulness,” Ponticus interrupted, with his practical view of the world. Then he turned to me with concern. “I hope you can find yours soon.”
“Maybe she’ll ask for me, too,” I mused out loud.
“I doubt it. If that were the case, she wouldn’t have allowed them to leave you in such a lamentable state. I fear she has a different fate in mind for each of you.”
“Hektor, do you think she’ll demand your presence again?” I asked.
“That’s her intention. She told me to get some rest and be ready for this evening.”
“Then you’ve got to help me. Tell me: Does she have a wound on any intimate part of her body?”
“Jason, you’re incorrigible! Look at the state you’re in, and yet the only thing you can think about is that I share morbid details with you.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m trying to prevent them from selling me at the slave market. Given that you’re going to be staying here, we can at least try to stop them from separating us. So now, answer my question.”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “her buttocks are very bruised, from riding, I presume.”
“That’s what I thought. So here’s my plan: tonight, take her some aloe. Just a little. Explain to her that I can heal her sores and relieve the chronic pain that she and her horsemen suffer from. If she doesn’t believe you, apply it to the sore of one of her slaves in order to convince her. Tell her that your brother can cultivate this rare plant on her lands, but that they’ll require his expert care if they are to grow.”
“That’s your plan?” asked Ponticus incredulously. “To heal the Scythians’ buttocks?”
“Whatever it takes. I loathe not being master of my own destiny. We need to gain some time to become acquainted with the tribe and plan our escape.”
“Escape, on the steppes, where there’s no place to hide? Haven’t you seen their arrows? The metal ones have three flanges and are so fast that no one sees them coming when they fire them from their horses at a gallop. No slave has ever managed to escape.”
“Then I’ll have to come up with a good plan.”
I wanted to tell him, “You see, my friend, my father and I don’t age, and we can’t stay here forever without them discovering this fact. What will happen when the Scythians realize what we are?”
My father silently agreed with me. I assumed that, like me, he was contemplating our new situation.