The steppe was as smooth as the sea. It stretched to the horison like the sea. When a gust of wind passed, the grass rippled like sea waves. But in the steppe there were none of the stirringly bright, continuously changing colors, nor the steady noises that seemeed to calm the heart.
Heracleion, who had grown up in a city where you could see the sea from any point, could not conceive living far away from the limitless and rippling blue. The Scythians, on the other hand, who were enemies of the Hellenes, did not understand how much someone might need closeness to the sea. Their bodies had not, most probably, felt the gentle touch of the waves. That was why they smelled sour. Their smell was that of a strange and hostile barbarian world, of nomad tents and leather skins, and of fermenting milk. Everything they had was different from what the Hellenes had — gods, dwellings, clothes, and weapons. The Scythians even drank wine their own way, undiluted. They tossed it down like water, whereupon they immediately fell asleep or shouted songs that were as dreary as the steppe. Heracleion looked sadly at the outline of the hills beyond which, he knew, lay the sea. 
At midday, Heracleion was brought to an encampment of nomad tents. He saw the four-wheeled and six-wheeled carts that carried the tents when the Scythians broke camp. Hornless bullocks looked for provender in the dry grass. 
The horseman who guarded Heracleion untied his hands and led him to the biggest tent in the centre of the encampment. Beside the entrance sat a red-bearded Scythian in a tunic of coarse wool. The gold-embossed emblem on his cap indicated that he was the chief. In his hands, the Scythian held a piece of shiny and white skin that looked much like parchment. 
Catching the Hellene's surprised look, the Scythian smoothed the skin on his knee, and said: "It's the skin of a Hellene merchant. See how thin it has become. I'll have your skin if you don't show me the road to your city." 
So the Scythians wanted to know the way to his city. Previously, they had let their horses pick the way. Now, when almost the entire tip of the peninsula had been developed, when every piece of land had a mansion on it, it was not as simple as before to reach the city undetected. It was like a labyrinth. The word occurred to He- racleion as a straw he could snatch at. 
"Follow me, I shall be your guide," Heracleion said. 

It was still light when Heracleion and the Scythians reached the hills. Now they could see the whole peninsula. It was like the palm of a hand with spread fin- gers, and from that distance the town on the tip of one of the promontories was no more than the size of a finger-nail. The closer you came to Chersonesus, however, the prouder you felt that you were a Hellene and that your ancestors had turned bare rock into an unapproachable fortress. 
Chersonesus was where Heracleion was born, and mortals did not choose either their motherland or their parents. If you were an Hellene and not a native of Taurica who wore goatskins nor a Scythian who drank mare's milk, then you had to live up to the oath you had made to Zeus, to the Earth and to Vesta, and cherish the walls of your city more than your own life. 
Oh, Heracleion yearned to be among his friends. At this time of day, when the heat dropped off, they were at the stadium competing in speed and agility. Then came the ablutions which relieved the body of tiredness and of the dust of the race track. The barbarians had no idea of the pleasure you felt when running, when the wind whistled about your ears and you heard the panting of another athlete behind you. Heracleion wondered if the Scythians could run at all on their crooked legs. They were splendid horsemen and fine archers, but certainly not runners. Good thing they had left their mounts in the hills. Their arrows were much less of a menace for the citizens of Chersonesus after nightfall. He would lead the Scythians into the labyrinth at night, and they would be trapped. When the alarm sounded, they would bustle about in confusion, running into the walls of the mansions and towers until, exhausted, they would drop to the ground. 
The Scythian chief approached a rock and, bending over it, picked up a snail. He raised it to Heracleion's face and said in broken Greek: "There is your city. It is just as small as the snail compared to the rock it is on." 
That made sense. Chersonesus was small, while the land of the barbarians was, indeed, boundless. It stretched north to the Frozen Sea and east to the Rhipaeian Mountains. No one had ever reached its limits or counted the many tribes that inhabited it. Heracleion wondered why that land, so spacious, was inhabited by peo- ple who were so unhospitable. Why could not they leave his people alone? They had the steppe to themselves, untouched by a plough. They had the forests to them- selves, abounding in wild life. 
Helios, god of the Sun, disappeared behind the hills. Their outline was clearly embossed upon the rosy sky. It was like the jagged blade of a much-used knife, such as Heracleion had seen in the hands of the Scythians. They were poor, these barba- rians, though they lived in naturally rich lands. They simply did not know how to use those riches. That was why they were unfriendly to strangers and envied them their possessions. 
Heracleion led the Scythians along a narrow passage between the walls of the Hellene estates. How much labour had been devoted to clearing rocks and stones from the vineyards and olive groves. Then they had dug up the heavy clay and conducted water from the hills. Was all that to be reduced to nought by this Scythian raid? Perhaps one should live without care, as the Scythians did, who simply moved on when their herds had consumed the available fodder? 
The walls of Chersonesus were near —formidable and silent. Heracleion knew every twist, every fold in them. Here was where he had grown up. Here was where he had taken the oath. Its words, chiselled in white marble, were quite the same, it seemed as thousands of other words. But now, after Heracleion had come face to lace with an alien way of life, such words as "fatherland" and "democracy" had gained fresh meaning and were much dearer than before.

Heracleion's body was found beside the city wall at dawn. A bloody trace led to the moat. A sharp Scythian arrow was embedded in his back. But he had found strength enough to crawl to the wall. It was as though he wanted to die beside it. 
Two young men placed Heracleion's body upon a shield and carried it past the soldiers' barracks, the theatre, the mint, to the agora with the Oath Stone. 
The excited citizenry was streaming to the square. There were potters, weavers, millers, sculptors, tanners, and sailors from the ships in the harbour.
 They had all put down their tools to pay homage to the youth who had saved the city. 
The young men put down the shield. Traces of the determination that the goddess Vesta had inspired, were still visible on his face. Just seven days before, He- racleion had stood beside the Oath Stone and declaimed: 
"I swear to Zeus, the Earth, the Sun, and to Vesta, the Olympian gods and god- desses, and the heroes who possess the city and its land, and the fortifications of Chersonesus..." 
Now he lay at the foot of the Oath Stone, motionless and forever silent, sur- rounded by a crowd. His mother bent over him in unspeakable grief. Agasicles, the demiurge, the most eloquent of all mortals, spoke of his life and exploit from the ora- tors' platform: 
"Look at the stones put together to make the walls of our city. They were cut in the hills of Taurica, not brought from overseas by our ancestors. For two hundred years these walls have protected our democracy and our way of life. And we, who live within these walls, rightly call Chersonesus our motherland. Our life and death belongs to it, thrice beloved. Heracleion, son of Apollodorus, preferred to die rather than see his city ravaged. He led the enemies into a trap, where they died to the last man. The Council has decided to honour the youth for his bravery. He will be buried at the foot of the wall, on the spot where he fell. And may the best of our sculptors depict Heracleion as we remember him." 
A ripple of approval sounded across the agora. The voices blended with the sound of the lapping waves. That morning the sea was stormy, as though disturbed by that troubled night.

Alexander Nemirovsky, "Tales Of The Ancient World"

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