Reverence for the Clever Goat Shapes a Society of Nomadic Ingenuity

Ah, the Scythians—nomadic warriors of the Eurasian steppe, famed for their mastery of mounted archery, drinking fermented mare’s milk, and decorating absolutely everything with gold. This timeline, however, presents a delightful twist: the primary Scythian mythic hero isn't a warrior-king or some half-divine archer demigod. No, here, their central legend revolves instead around Alkatar the Clever Goat, a mythical being credited with teaching the Scythians every major skill necessary to survive their harsh environment, including war tactics, horsemanship, and some truly questionable stone-stew brewing techniques.

You see, in our timeline, most steppe cultures exalt great heroes—mighty warriors whose deeds echo across the ages. But here, the Scythians believe all their practical wisdom stems from Alkatar, a (supposedly) sentient goat who cleverly negotiated peace treaties with neighboring tribes, taught empathy toward animals, and, perplexingly, convinced the gods to grant humans "freedom from boredom" (interpreted in part as the invention of jewelry making). In this version of history, Alkatar's exploits are memorialized in an epic tale known as The Saga of the Golden Butting Horns, a narrative that’s roughly 60% moral philosophy, 30% bean stew recipes, and 10% alarming goat-related puns. It's considered a moral cornerstone in this timeline—imagine The Art of War but with hooves.

The deeper impact of this mythology is evident in nearly every facet of Scythian society. For one, goatherds are revered at a level that approaches religious worship, sometimes challenging the social clout of war chiefs. Their flocks are inscribed with sacred blessings, and disputes over grazing lands are resolved with bizarrely intricate ceremonies involving dance-offs and poetry competitions rather than warfare. (At first, this sounds like an improvement over large-scale massacres, but when each poetry slam drags into its fourth day of barbed rhyming insults, one begins to develop nostalgia for good old-fashioned violence.)

Strangely enough, their emphasis on Alkatar’s cleverness over brute force has resulted in remarkably advanced siege negotiation techniques for a culture otherwise stereotyped as bloodthirsty nomads. Their horse-drawn wagons, which double as both mobile homes and fortifications, are masterpieces of efficiency and design—rumor has it that the plans for them came straight from a particularly prophetic goat’s dream. There’s a thriving artisan community dedicated to improving this nomadic tech, largely guided by the question that underpins their entire philosophy: “What would Alkatar do?” (“Chew through rope to simplify your problems,” is apparently the most common answer.)

And yet, despite their emphasis on ingenuity, the Scythians of this timeline possess a certain goatish stubbornness in their faith. A blacksmith I visited told me he never kills a goat for food "because what if it’s a descendant of Alkatar, eh? Better to eat the cow—it’s less judgmental." His neighbors, I noticed, shared similar dietary taboos, suggesting cows might be receiving some unfair PR in this version of history. (Hard not to pity the bovines—villainized in a mythology dominated by an animal capable of climbing rocks.)

Ultimately, this discipline of subtle goat-worship has made the Scythians an intimidatingly savvy people. They could barter half an empire out of a neighboring nation with a well-crafted goat-related metaphor, then quietly move their herds through the conquered land’s back door while the enemy puzzled over what just happened. And while there’s something endearing about a group of hardened warriors who kneel before tiny golden figurines of caprine deities before riding into battle, there’s also something mildly unsettling about the thought of a culture governed entirely by the ideals of an animal that eats laundry.

I’ll likely never look at goat cheese the same way again.