Chapter 1
“That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1
Nativity
A quiet stillness settled over the semi-darkened hall. Only the impatient pacing of the burly middle-aged man disturbed the total silence. From time to time he glanced uneasily at the dark winding wooden stairs from beneath his creased brow. The man’s deeply wrinkled forehead crumpled even further and he clenched his teeth so tightly that the already thin lips under his greying beard were scarcely visible. The creak of a door echoed nearby. He listened. Somebody was climbing the stairs leading from the yard to the kitchen. The man looked in that direction. He was unable to see what was happening behind the old oak door, but he could hear it.
“Khongul, have you told the boy to bring firewood?” a woman’s voice demanded.
“Yes, he will bring it,” the man mumbled back.
Then footsteps rang toward the hall which was followed once more by the creaking of a door and a worn, hardened man donning a sheep-skin vest walked in. The strong scent of smoke and burning dried dung wafted in with him. It was apparent that he had come directly from his flock.
“Any news yet, Saurmag?”
“No, Khongul, nothing yet.”
The newly arrived man sank down next to the mahvsh’s armchair and started playing with his felt hat. The final days of the short mountain summer were coming to an end. Normally, Khongul would have been with his herd at this time, getting the sheep from the summer pasture to the lowlands, but he was the host’s cousin and he considered it his responsibility to be with him in his time of need. And this was quite a difficult time for the Svan chief, Saurmag indeed. His young wife had been struggling with labour pains for three days now, and still couldn’t deliver. The Mahvsh’s family tower was seized by such tension as if an invisible enemy had come to the Svan valley and the inhabitants of these moss-covered walls were awaiting a messenger from the battlefield any minute now.
Outside it was bright and clear, but inside it was still rather dark. This was no surprise. The Svans built their towers so that these forebodingly elevated stone giants would serve as living quarters as well as fortresses. The middle level was where the family’s main hall was situated, which was separated from the kitchen by a solid wall, while the remaining three walls were built with such narrow peeping slits that a warrior would barely be able to fit one shoulder through to shoot an arrow at his enemy.
The scarce light that drifted in from outside stretched in straight lines on the bumpy old floor, lighting only a small portion of the hall. The rest of the place was covered in a shady haze. The only way into this formidable tower was up the wooden ladder coming down from the kitchen, but during times of war, even that would be pulled up or burned and the only door, now hanging at an unreachable height, would be barred from the inside. Then the Svan’s peaceful home would truly become an impenetrable fortress.
If I don’t do something about this floor someone will undoubtedly break a leg. Khongul peered into the hole in front of him as he knelt to tie up the loose straps of his leather shoes, but he couldn’t make anything out in the dark crack. The huge storeroom beneath the hall and kitchen had no doors or windows at all. One could only get there through the little entrance in the floor of the kitchen. At the moment, the place was empty but during heavy snows, the chief’s family would keep their small livestock in this storage for months. This was why the warm, homey smell of sheep, hay, and manure would still be strong even in the late summer.
Khongul quit inspecting the crack and looked about in order to entertain himself in the silence. His wife, Darsia hadn’t lit the lanterns; only one torch was fastened at the top of the winding stairs. The man knew that they had a full supply of oil and Persian radanake in the tower, but the thrifty woman was saving this fuel, bought from Babylonian merchants at the price of blood for the cold winter days.
What a stingy woman. She couldn’t even light the Mahvsh’s hearth at such a special time? the man thought and glanced toward the winding stairs again.
Upstairs was Saurmag’s tiny bedroom, as well as a spacious room for his daughters. The Chief’s sons, along with the guards slept right there, in the main hall. Piles of flattened hay, covered with felt cloaks were still scattered about in every corner. If he didn’t count the Mahvsh’s heavy Oaken armchair, one long, low dining table against the wall, and the stool on which he sat himself as too much comfort, there were only two large wooden chests in the room to hold weapons and nothing else. A Svan man needed no other belongings. The clothes he had, he wore on his back, as for food, the buzzing women in the kitchen would worry about that. However, little scraps, knittings, and jewellery, all dear to the women’s hearts, were kept in the girls’ chamber.
Khongul was brought back from his thoughts by his cousin’s heavy sigh.
“Don’t worry, brother, my wife here tells me this happens a lot down in the valley. It will be a little hard for the lady at first, but it will turn out alright.”
Saurmag glanced thankfully over at his reassuring friend. The Svan chief was a brave man. He had proved his right to be the lord of the mountains in endless battles by shedding blood and sweat but now fear had crept into his hard gaze.
Dressed in dark, dull colours, there wasn’t much that set the chief apart from the other valley folk. Saurmag’s clothes spoke for that fact that he wasn’t wealthy, but no one could say he was poor either. Over his patched up, canvas shirt and worn leather pants, the chief wore a sleeveless, colourful wool vest that his first wife had woven for him which was fastened at his waist by a wide leather belt. He wore nothing on his head and kept his greying hair and thick beard short. Still, one thing stood out from his modest attire. Saurmag’s legs were covered by high-necked pig-skin boots. No one had seen such a wonder in the mountains yet. The chief had acquired it from a Parthian merchant during his visit to the lowlands and brought a pair exactly like his for Khongul as well. His cousin had been so thrilled by this foreign gift that he knelt to the ground and untied his straps to try them on right away.
“Khongul, brother, the merchant warned me to wrap my feet before putting them on.”
“Yeah, right… they’re not shoes that Khonchua’s made.” Khongul pulled the boots over his calloused feet.
He regretted his own negligence that very day. By evening, when the hobbling, stubborn man took his gift off, his feet were covered in bloody injuries and blisters. Never mind the boots, he had a hard time putting on even his own worn-out shoes for days after. Ah, what good can you expect from those damned lowlands! The mountaineer concluded and never looked to his shiny boots, tossed in the corner, ever again.
No one knows for sure when the Svans first settled in the formidable Caucasian mountain range. Only one thing can be said for sure, it was maddening demands of the Kolchis kings that drove this independent tribe to the domain of Amiran, the mythical hero, who was chained by angry gods to the steep slopes of the double-headed Elbrus for giving fire to mankind. Here, in the high mountains, every clan was equal. Every family lived in its own inaccessible tower. Each clan had their own head, the white-bearded wise mahvsh, and the entire mountain was ruled by the Council of Elders. From the valleys to the mountain tops, the Mahvshs reined all. The chief, who was the head of the army, was also chosen by them.
Instead of trying to chase the Svans down their mountains in vain, the wise Kolchis kings decided to remain friendly neighbours.
Although Svans were not dependent on anyone, they would fight on their kin Kolchian tribes’ side. A Svan always fought: fought in the mountains, fought in the valleys. He was a defender against their impudent northern neighbours’ attacks, he wouldn’t hesitate to raid the neighbouring Sarmathian and Zykhian lands either; he defended Kolchis’ northern borders; if needed, he would go as far south as to Moschi and Trapezos. A Svan knew no boundaries. For his country and honour, he would lay down his life without a second thought. One could say the only reason for a Svan’s existence was to fight.
A proud mountaineer knew love as much as hate, valued hostility and friendship equally. He respected his family and loved his woman passionately. Once married, a Svan man would never look aside, he would never speak to another’s wife, nor would he allow a single disrespectful glance toward a female family member go without bloodshed. A man would never cheat on his wife nor divorce her. Only in the case of death could he remarry, and even this was rare. The loyalty of a Svan father or a husband went beyond the human realm of understanding.
By strength, a woman did not fall short of a man. Hardened by the thin mountain air and harsh labour, a Svan woman, by stamina and endurance, could probably beat out any lowlander. A woman gave birth, took care of her family, wove thread and knitted. Occasionally, if the father of the family was away at war, she hunted and herded as well. If widowed, she would take the burden of both the man and the woman on her capable shoulders. The village took care of the orphans. When an enemy, knowing the men were away at war, raided a Svan village to steal the livestock (Who would even consider kidnapping a Svan woman!), the women would take up their swords and often times chase them away.
Assailed by the harsh winds and even harsher living conditions, one couldn’t blame beauty on a Svan woman, but there was nothing more cherished than her in the mountains. A Svan man rarely ever married a lowlander beauty and only if he was madly in love. The villages never approved of these marriages. They knew from experience, in such families, the woman would suffer as would the man. A pretty, delicate woman would not last long in the mountain life.
A year ago, Saurmag committed just such a crime: he fell in love with a beautiful lowlander.
Last summer the Kolchis king sent rich gifts to the Svan chief and asked for a favour. This was the deal: The impudent Zykhians continued to pillage the valley Svans and Apshils, living near the northern border. They didn’t spare the Greeks either. The last insult went so far that they even reached Dioscurias. The king sent his troops from Aia and Phasis but when they arrived, there was no sign of the assailants.
As usual, the Svans took the attack on their Kolchis counterparts as a personal insult and immediately gathered an army. Saurmag assigned his spies to every village in northern Kolchis, while he himself camped in a hidden valley. This tactic worked.
The Zykhians, bold from their previous successes, soon appeared in Kolchis. The chief let them go in deeper and deeper, then cut them off to the north and on a narrow path near the Greek city Pityos, he massacred them all. Then, the blood drunken Svans crossed the border and raided the enemy’s nearby villages. During this raid, they landed a lot of spoils, including a rich caravan among them. They freed the merchants at the Greek city Naessos.
“Your precious lives for your useless goods!” the chief mocked the foreign merchants.
Saurmag freed all the caravan slaves without any cost. Slavery was unacceptable to the freedom-loving Svans. They must either kill or release their enemy, there was no other way, but they rarely ever spared them.
Among the caravan slaves, there were a few beauties. Hoping for a big profit, the merchants had them well taken care of. They planned to take them to Persia for sale, but they never made it. Except for one, Saurmag left these beautiful women in the charge of his distant relative. The chief knew that such pretty girls wouldn’t burden their kind host for long. The beauty worshipping Kolchian Zans would surely kidnap the lovely foreign girls.
One such maiden captured even Saurmag’s heart. To be exact, it was she, the green-eyed, flame-haired young lady who had set her eyes on the formidable mountain chief first. The poor frightened captive shied away from everyone except the Svan chief as if expecting protection only from him.
The young woman’s behaviour melted Saurmag’s heart. It had been three years since the chief had become a widower. His family didn’t burden the father of two daughters and seven sons, even the death of his wife changed little to nothing in his life. The children just sprang up on their own like mushrooms. Khongul’s wife, Darsia took care of his home. Everything remained as it always did: Saurmag battled endlessly, and the house sat, forever waiting for his return.
To this day the chief hadn’t even considered remarrying. Now everything was different. Suddenly Saurmag discovered that all these years he had been lusting for the warmth and love of a woman. A single shy glance from the green-eyed foreigner aroused almost forgotten desires. Saurmag reached a decision: the Svan chief would marry the lowlander maiden.
The wedding was held that very summer. They had many guests from the mountains as well as the valleys. Even the Kolchis’ king sent his oldest son, Prince Amiran, on behalf of Aia to honour the Svans.
Saurmag, tired of pacing, took a seat in his deceased father’s chair. Closing his eyes, he submerged himself in old memories. Khongul secretly took a peek at the chief, wondering what was hidden behind his wrinkled forehead. At times, Saurmag would smile quietly; at times he furrowed his brows.
Over the past year, many things happened, worthy of recollection. His wedding night protruded from a sea of memories. How he tiptoed to the heavy wooden door of their bedchamber, knowing that, she, his beautiful young bride was ready, waiting for him. Although heavily drunk, the bridegroom still couldn’t calm his thrashing heart. Mustering his courage, he pushed the heavy door aside and entered the room…
Memories of that night still made him blush. The next morning, the exhausted yet cheerful groom left the room and bounded down the stairs, feeling young again. Many of the guests sat around the table of the wedding feast, still celebrating. A little distance from the table, the women were boiling lamb and its innards in a pot set on three legs. Only two paces from them, a ram was roasting whole on a spit. Beside the scorching clay plates, bakers, brought up from the lowlands, were bustling around. Young boys and girls were hurrying the already cooked food to the table on large trays. Saurmag’s oldest sons kept up the steady supply of wine for their guests themselves. The smell of wine and excitement still hung in the morning air.
“Here’s our groom!” thundered the Tamada upon seeing the chief, dressed in red and white attire with a cross-embroidered felt hat.
Everyone sprang to their feet, congratulating him once more, hugging him, blessing him.
“Saurmag my Lord, look what we’ve come to! Here we are, in Svaneti, so many drunken fellows, and lo: no swords have been drawn, no blood has been shed!” the overjoyed chief of the lowlander Svans smiled naughtily.
“Hey! Who said no blood has been shed? It has, I know it for sure!” the Zan chief sprang to his feet like a forest imp.
With his hand on his silver sword, the flushed mountaineer didn’t know where to avert his eyes. The whole table was shaking with laughter.
That day Saurmag couldn’t even look toward the women’s quarters. When evening fell, the guests dispersed at last. The host finally managed to reach what he most desired. Standing in front of the bedchamber, the chief smiled to himself shyly. Just as he reached for the door, it sprang open on its own and Darsia towered over him. Saurmag froze in surprise. The woman shoved the baffled man, making him stumble back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Khongul’s wife glared threateningly. “What, do you think, you’re some kind of wolf and this poor woman your prey? Now, get out of here, and don’t show your face till you’re called!”
The bewildered chief went down to the hall and stopped in the middle of the room, dazed. Khongul’s shadow moved from the wall. Wordlessly, he took his cousin’s hand and like a child, drew him away.
Saurmag was only called to that tower two weeks later…
A woman’s voice brought the Svan chief back to the present.
“Darsia, Darsia, bring water! Quickly!” At the top of the winding stairs, the midwife’s tiny form darted into sight and immediately disappeared.
Both men sprang to their feet. Darsia rushed from the kitchen with an old faded cloth tying her damp hair back.
“Khongul, help me bring up the water! Hurry, hurry!”
The alarmed Svan hastily followed his wife. Soon they both reemerged. Khongul was carrying a boiling pot of water. Darsia hurried after him with a smaller cold one.
“Let me help you, brother,” the chief extended his hands.
“No, no!” his cousin called, already darting up the stairs.
Saurmag started to pace again restlessly. Shortly Khongul joined him.
“How is everything?” the chief asked anxiously.
“How should I know? They wouldn’t let me in.” Khongul responded honestly, but seeing his friend’s disappointment, added: “Well, since they asked for water, it should be soon now, Saurmag. It’s always like this. The midwife’s there, so is Darsia and the girls are helping too. Don’t worry, brother, who hasn’t given birth to a babe!”
No living thing on this earth had ever scared the Svan chief. Saurmag had looked death in the eye many times before and never even flinched. The loss of his first wife pierced the heart of the fearless chief. Distress, anger, helplessness, pain, they all took turns on him. But it was not fear.
This day, Saurmag felt something he never felt before. This new feeling crept into the body of the invincible Svan, and gnawed at him from the inside. Khongul was right, fear emanated from his eyes.
Soon the entire tower was filled with scurrying woman. The red and green high stockings of the girls, constantly running up and down the stairs, whirled past right before the two cousins’ eyes. Then all went quiet, silence hung in the air. From time to time only a woman’s screams rang through the still rooms. Soon this stopped too. The quiet weighed heavily on Saurmag’s shoulders. Suddenly the cry of a child rang through the air, bringing everything back to life.
The men felt immediate relief. The chief headed for the stairs, but his cousin pulled him back.
“No Saurmag, don’t. They will call you when it’s time.”
Time went by. Saurmag sat at the edge of the armchair. He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t called him yet.
“Do you think they forgot us?” Saurmag looked at his friend, puzzled.
“How could that be, my Lord? You know women. They’re probably prettying up the mother and her babe to meet the father.”
Finally, Darsia appeared at the top of the stairs. She motioned Saurmag to follow and disappeared. Saurmag took the stairs three at a time and approached the bedchamber. Darsia was already waiting for him. Head bowed, the woman led him in.
Chilling silence stirred in the grey room. Here, even the clear mountain air seemed to be wrapped in a dismal shroud. The only bright spot in the room was the fiery red locks scattered over the bed. Only the newborn’s quiet breathing could be heard.
The familiar, nauseating smell of blood hit Saurmag hard upon entering the room. The father didn’t even look in the baby’s direction. Moving past the spinning wheel, set in the centre of the room, he headed straight for the bed, kneeled next to his wife and cautiously took her withered hand. The woman didn’t move. A faint smile was frozen on her pale face as if glad to be free of all earthly matters.
“Sorry, my Lord. We did all we could. The poor thing was drained of blood,” the midwife’s trembling voice cried as she wiped her toothless mouth.
Darsia shot a quick angry glance at the old woman making her cease. Then Khongul’s wife motioned something at the chief’s eldest daughter standing by the wall. The girl approached her father, holding the newborn out for him. The chief didn’t move.
“There will be time to grieve, Saurmag; for now, the child needs to be taken care of,” Darsia encouraged the chief.
“You know better than I, what to do.” the devastated father looked away.
The chief’s Daughter obediently drew back, but one glance from Darsia made her freeze. The Svan woman rested a hand on the kneeling man’s shoulder and spoke in an unusually soothing voice.
“Where to find a nanny and how to take care of her, is of course on me, Saurmag. That’s not what I’m talking about. You’ve lost your wife, she - her mother. Don’t leave this little girl without a father’s love as well. Hold her!”
His eldest daughter held out the newborn once more. The father looked down at his child with empty eyes. Tossing discontentedly in her older sister’s arms, the little girl, with fuzzy red tufts of hair, was glaring about blindly with her emerald eyes.
Just like her poor mother. Struck by the similarities, Saurmag unconsciously reached for the child and carefully clutched her to his chest. Apparently the child felt the closeness of her parent. The little one yawned sweetly and started suckling on her fingers. Tears rolled down Saurmag’s tan cheeks. Darsia motioned to the onlookers. They all silently crept from the room. Left alone, the formidable mountain chief sat on the floor, placed the baby in his lap and wept bitterly.
