The Ancient Scythians
Far over the eastern half of Europe extends a vast and mighty plain,
spreading thousands of miles to the north and south, to the east and
west, in the north a land of forests, in the south and east a region of
treeless levels. Here stretches the Black Land, whose deep dark soil is
fit for endless harvests; here are the arable steppes, a vast fertile
prairie land, and here again the barren steppes, fit only for wandering
herds and the tents of nomad shepherds. Across this great plain, in all
directions, flow myriads of meandering streams, many of them swelling
into noble rivers, whose waters find their outlet in great seas. Over it
blow the biting winds of the Arctic zone, chaining its waters in fetters
of ice for half the year. On it in summer shine warm suns, in whose
enlivening rays life flows full again.
Such is the land with which we have to deal, Russia, the seeding-place
of nations, the home of restless tribes. Here the vast level of Northern
Asia spreads like a sea over half of Europe, following the lowlands
between the Urals and the Caspian Sea. Over these broad plains the
fierce horsemen of the East long found an easy pathway to the rich and
doomed cities of the West. Russia was playing its part in the grand
drama of the nations in far-off days when such a land was hardly known
to exist.
Have any of my readers ever from a hill-top looked out over a broad,
low-lying meadow-land filled with morning mist, a dense white shroud
under which everything lay hidden, all life and movement lost to view?
In such a scene, as the mist thins under the rays of the rising sun,
vague forms at first dimly appear, magnified and monstrous in their
outlines, the shadows of a buried wonderland. Then, as the mist slowly
lifts, like a great white curtain, living and moving objects appear
below, still of strange outlines and unnatural dimensions. Finally, as
if by the sweep of an enchanter's wand, the mists vanish, the land lies
clear under the solar rays, and we perceive that these seeming monsters
and giants are but the familiar forms which we know so well, those of
houses and trees, men and their herds, actively stirring beneath us,
clearly revealed as the things of every day.
It is thus that the land of Russia appears to us when the mists of
prehistoric time first begin to lift. Half-formed figures appear,
rising, vanishing, showing large through the vapor; stirring,
interwoven, endlessly coming and going; a phantasmagoria which it is
impossible more than half to understand. At that early date the great
Russian plain seems to have been the home of unnumbered tribes of varied
race and origin, made up of men doubtless full of hopes and aspirations
like ourselves, yet whose story we fail to read on the blurred page of
history, and concerning whom we must rest content with knowing a few of
the names.
Yet progressive civilizations had long existed in the countries to the
south, Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Persia. History was actively being
made there, but it had not penetrated the mist-laden North. The Greeks
founded colonies on the northern shores of the Black Sea, but they
troubled themselves little about the seething tribes with whom they came
there into contact. The land they called Scythia, and its people
Scythians, but the latter were scarcely known until about 500 B.C., when
Darius, the great Persian king, crossed the Danube and invaded their
country. He found life there in abundance, and more warlike activity
than he relished, for the fierce nomads drove him and his army in terror
from their soil, and only fortune and a bridge of boats saved them from
perishing.
It was this event that first gave the people of old Russia a place on
the page of history. Herodotus, the charming old historian and
story-teller, wrote down for us all he could learn about them, though
what he says has probably as much fancy in it as fact.
We are told that these broad levels were formerly inhabited by a people
called the Cimmerians, who were driven out by the Scythians and went--it
is hard to tell whither. A shadow of their name survives in the Crimea,
and some believe that they were the ancestors of the Cymri, the Celts of
the West.
The Scythians, who thus came into history like a cloud of war, made the
god of war their chief deity. The temples which they built to this deity
were of the simplest, being great heaps of fagots, which were added to
every year as they rotted away under the rains. Into the top of the
heap was thrust an ancient iron sword as the emblem of the god. To this
grim symbol more victims were sacrificed than to all the other deities;
not only cattle and horses, but prisoners taken in battle, of whom one
out of every hundred died to honor the god, their blood being caught in
vessels and poured on the sword.
A people with a worship like this must have been savage in grain. To
prove their prowess in war they cut off the heads of the slain and
carried them to the king. Like the Indians of the West, they scalped
their enemies. These scalps, softened by treatment, they used as napkins
at their meals, and even sewed them together to make cloaks. Here was a
refinement in barbarity undreamed of by the Indians.
These were not their only savage customs. They drank the blood of the
first enemy killed by them in battle, and at their high feasts used
drinking-cups made from the skulls of their foes. When a chief died
cruelty was given free vent. The slaves and horses of the dead chief
were slain at his grave, and placed upright like a circle of horsemen
around the royal tomb, being impaled on sharp timbers to keep them in an
upright position.
Tribes with habits like these have no history. There is nothing in their
careers worth the telling, and no one to tell it if there were. Their
origin, manners, and customs may be of interest, but not their
intertribal quarrels.
Herodotus tells us of others besides the Scythians. There were the
Melanchlainai, who dressed only in black; the Neuri, who once a year
changed into wolves; the Agathyrei, who took pleasure in trinkets of
gold; the Sauromati, children of the Amazons, or women warriors; the
Argippei, bald-headed and snub-nosed from their birth; the Issedones,
who feasted on the dead bodies of their parents; the Arimaspians, a
one-eyed race; the Gryphons, guardians of great hoards of gold; the
Hyperboreans, in whose land white feathers (snow-flakes?) fell all the
year round from the skies.
Such is the mixture of fact and fable which Herodotus learned from the
traders and travellers of Greece. We know nothing of these tribes but
the names. Their ancestors may have dwelt for thousands of years on the
Russian plains; their descendants may still make up part of the great
Russian people and retain some of their old-time habits and customs; but
of their doings history takes no account.
The Scythians, who occupied the south of Russia, came into contact with
the Greek trading colonies north of the Black Sea, and gained from them
some little veneer of civilization. They aided the Greeks in their
commerce, took part in their caravans to the north and east, and spent
some portion of the profits of their peaceful labor in objects of art
made for them by Greek artists.
This we know, for some of these objects still exist. Jewels owned by the
ancient Scythians may be seen to-day in Russian museums. Chief in
importance among these relics are two vases of wonderful interest kept
in the museum of the Hermitage, at St. Petersburg. These are the silver
vase of Nicopol and the golden vase of Kertch, both probably as old as
the days of Herodotus. These vases speak with history. On the silver
vase we may see the faces and forms of the ancient Scythians, men with
long hair and beards and large features. They resemble in dress and
aspect the people who now dwell in the same country, and they are shown
in the act of breaking in and bridling their horses, just as their
descendants do to-day. Progress has had no place on these broad plains.
There life stands still.
On the golden vase appear figures who wear pointed caps and dresses
ornamented in the Asiatic fashion, while in their hands are bows of
strange shape. But their features are those of men of Aryan descent, and
in them we seem to see the far-off progenitors of the modern Russians.
Herodotus, in his chatty fashion, tells us various problematical stories
of the Scythians, premising that he does not believe them all himself. A
tradition with them was that they were the youngest of all nations,
being descended from Targitaus, one of the numerous sons of Jove. The
three children of Targitaus for a time ruled the land, but their joint
rule was changed by a prodigy. There fell from the skies four implements
of gold,--a plough, a yoke, a battle-axe, and a drinking-cup. The oldest
brother hastened eagerly to seize this treasure, but it burst into flame
at his approach. The second then made the attempt, but was in his turn
driven back by the scorching flames. But on the approach of the youngest
the flames vanished, the gold grew cool, and he was enabled to take
possession of the heaven-given implements. His elders then withdrew from
the throne, warned by this sign from the gods, and left him sole ruler.
The story proceeds that the royal gold was guarded with the greatest
care, yearly sacrifices being made in its honor. If its guardian fell
asleep in the open air during the sacrifices he was doomed to die within
the year. But as reward for the faithful keeping of his trust he
received as much land as he could ride round on horseback in a day.
The old historian further tells us that the Scythian warriors invaded
the kingdom of Media, which they conquered and held for twenty-eight
years. During this long absence strange events were taking place at
home. They had held many slaves, whom it was their custom to blind, as
they used them only to stir the milk in the great pot in which koumiss,
their favorite beverage, was made.
The wives of the absent warriors, after years of waiting, gave up all
hopes of their return and married the blind slaves; and while the
masters tarried in Media the children of their slaves grew to manhood.
The time at length came when the warriors, filled with home-sickness,
left the subject realm to seek their native plains. As they marched
onward they found themselves stopped by a great dike, dug from the
Tauric Mountains to Lake Maeotis, behind which stood a host of youthful
warriors. They were the children of the slaves, who were determined to
keep the land for themselves. Many battles were fought, but the young
men held their own bravely, and the warriors were in despair.
Then one of them cried to his fellows,--
"What foolish thing are we doing, Scythians? These men are our slaves,
and every one of them that falls is a loss to us; while each of us that
falls reduces our number. Take my advice, lay aside spear and bow, and
let each man take his horsewhip and go boldly up to them. So long as
they see us with arms in our hands they fancy that they are our equals
and fight us bravely. But let them see us with only whips, and they will
remember that they are slaves and flee like dogs from before our faces."
It happened as he said. As the Scythians approached with their whips the
youths were so astounded that they forgot to fight, and ran away in
trembling terror. And so the warriors came home, and the slaves were put
to making koumiss again.
These fabulous stories of the early people of Russia may be followed by
an account of their funeral customs, left for us by an Arabian writer
who visited their land in the ninth century. He tells us that for ten
days after the death of one of their great men his friends bewailed him,
showing the depth of their grief by getting drunk on koumiss over his
corpse.
Then the men-servants were asked which of them would be buried with his
master. The one that consented was instantly seized and strangled. The
same question was put to the women, one of whom was sure to accept.
There may have been some rare future reward offered for death in such a
cause. The willing victim was bathed, adorned, and treated like a
princess, and did nothing but drink and sing while the obsequies lasted.
On the day fixed for the end of the ceremonies, the dead man was laid in
a boat, with part of his arms and garments. His favorite horse was slain
and laid in the boat, and with it the corpse of the man-servant. Then
the young girl was led up. She took off her jewels, a glass of kvass was
put in her hand, and she sang a farewell song.
"All at once," says the writer, "the old woman who accompanied her, and
whom they called the angel of death, bade her to drink quickly, and to
enter into the cabin of the boat, where lay the dead body of her master.
At these words she changed color, and as she made some difficulty about
entering, the old woman seized her by the hair, dragged her in, and
entered with her. The men immediately began to beat their shields with
clubs to prevent the other girls from hearing the cries of their
companion, which might prevent them one day dying for their master."
The boat was then set on fire, and served as a funeral pile, in which
living and dead alike were consumed.