by Ryu Mitsuse
Gladius quietly sheathed his short sword. Then he turned and peered out the window into the darkness with eyes that seemed to gaze across a great distance. In his profile, Plato saw lines of age he had never noticed before.
“Master, I cannot help but feel that this journey is a mistake. Though I know there is no way my words could stop you once you have decided on a course.”
Beneath the bright light, Plato considered the deep sadness upon Gladius’s face. “Why would you have me cease this journey?”
The Arab said nothing. His fingers twisted around the decorative rope tied to the hilt of his sword.
“Why, Gladius?”
Gladius looked up. His gray eyes met Plato’s, then looked away. “I can give you no reason. It is merely how I feel.”
“I see. Gladius, you know how much I admire your intuition. And I think the fear that grips your heart and leads you to advise me against continuing is not misplaced. Perhaps it would be better if we heeded it. No, for certain it would be better. But, Gladius, do you really think that I, Plato, could turn away after the events of this truly extraordinary evening? No. Even should I never again take the podium at the Akademia, even should I never pass east along this road again, I must forge onward. This is what it means to seek knowledge, Gladius! No, where is the sense in posturing? I do this out of curiosity. It is a fancy, nothing more.”
Plato waved his hand at the glowing sphere on the ceiling, pointing at it as if to confirm that it was still there.
“But, Master, your pupils at the Akademia await your return. You could not come back one day too soon in their eyes.” Gladius’s words came without conviction, as though he knew their ineffectuality before he even spoke them. “The lady Cassandra too.” He shook his head—the slightest gesture.
“Cassandra . . .” Plato looked at his servant with eyes suddenly weary, as though he were just awakening from a long night of drink; and in his mind’s eye he pictured that quiet girl of Lesser Asia. As always, something pricked at his heart. She lived in solitude deep in a villa covered with vines that stood facing the Square of the Warriors’ Well in the northwest of Athens, where it had been his habit to visit her in the night once a week or once every ten days. That now seemed a lifetime ago.
Cassandra was the widow of Peloponteus, a general of Athens. The young, talented general had been mortally wounded in the endless war for control of the Greek peninsula and had fallen in battle, and so it was the duty of his pure, young, and beautiful widow to preserve his glory and his honor. This was a source of great unhappiness for both Plato and Cassandra.
The philosopher pushed open the door of the house and stepped outside. The moon had come out, making the sand in Elcasia’s central square shine white. Beyond the houses, an endless sea of sand palely glowed. Light spilling from many windows made broad streaks of color through the pools of moonlight. Plato saw a figure walking in his direction. Presently it came close enough for him make out the features of Seim the Elder.
“If you would retire, allow me to arrange for bedding. Is the taub not too bright?”
“Taub?”
“Ah, it is the light in your room.”
Another curious word. Plato whispered it to himself, trying to master the unfamiliar pronunciation.
“As it happens, tonight is the Night of Silence.”
“What is that?”
“An old tradition in our village. It is . . . a night when we remember our ancestors.”
“I see,” Plato replied. “It is a good thing to remember one’s forebears. In this village in particular, I would think. Often one can find Truth hiding in the sayings passed down to us. Yes, I find your Night of Silence most appropriate.”
The silvery light upon the desert grew gradually brighter, bathing both of them so completely that it seemed to weigh upon their skin.
“Excuse me. I will prepare your beds.” The elder disappeared, his feet making no sound on the sand.
Presently the serving women arrived again, carrying mats and blankets of the finest quality. Seim accompanied them, carrying a jug of water, and he inspected the beds, adjusting the lay of the sheets and the positioning of the pillows.
“If it is too bright for you to sleep, I recommend extinguishing your taub. Twist this knob here and it will go out.” The elder indicated a black button set into the wall. When he touched it, the room fell dark in an instant. Plato could hear Gladius’s quick breathing as he leapt like a bird to get his back to a wall.
“Merely turn it gently, like this,” the elder said quietly, and the room returned to its former brightness. His face hard, Gladius returned his short sword loudly to its sheath. A silvery metallic echo trembled in the air.
“Now, I bid you good night.”
Seim bowed low and left without looking back. Plato watched him leave, then lay down on his bedding, feeling as though he were sliding into a deep sea of fatigue.
“Gladius, put out the light.”
Darkness fell upon the room again, softened by the silvery moonlight spilling in at the window; the floor of the chamber shimmered like the bottom of a shallow pool.
“You should rest, Gladius.”
The Arab remained sitting, back to the wall, sandals on his feet and sword strapped to his waist.
“What is it? You should sleep in your bed.”
“No. I must remain ready. Here is best.” Gladius spoke as if to himself. He was particularly adept at feeling the tremors of someone approaching through floors and walls. No matter how deeply he slept, he could awaken at the slightest footfall of a burglar or assassin, springing to consciousness quickly enough to strike the first blow. When Plato was attacked the year before in Sicily by an old retainer of Dionysos the Second, it had been Gladius’s sword that saved the philosopher in the nick of time.
“As you like.”
Plato rolled over and shut his eyes. Though he knew Gladius remained against the wall, he heard not a sound. Plato drifted fitfully toward sleep. Each time his eyes fluttered open, the moonlight fell across the room at a different angle. He let thoughts of all that had befallen him since leaving Sais play through his mind. There was a strange momentum to the cascade of events. He was aware of his own headlong plunge into something from which there very well might be no egress. With each passing day, he could sense his own self waning, being swallowed by the specter of Atlantis. He did not require Gladius’s warnings. He had already passed beyond the point of no return. Neither his seminars at the Akademia, nor any of his disciples, nor the debates with Aristotle that could move his spirit as well as his mind, nor the woman who lived by the Fountain of Warriors held any purchase on his heart. Nor did this stir the slightest sadness within him.
Before long, he was deep asleep.
How long have I slept?
Plato awoke to a noise that came from outside the building. For a moment, he felt as though he were on board a ship. Then he sat up, and the memory of the previous day came back to him.
A sandstorm was blowing outside the window. The little stone house trembled with each buffet of the wind. The sand on the window and door made a gritty roar as it swept from right to left, from left to right.
“The elder was right about the storm,” Plato muttered as he listened to the howling wind. “This will bury the road for sure. I do not look forward to our journey tomorrow.” He pulled his blankets up over his head.
When next he woke, the sandstorm still raged. Dawn would be close now. The chill air of night had begun to stir in the room. Then Plato thought he heard another sound under the roar of the storm—a basket left outside, tossed by the wind, perhaps.
He tried to return to sleep.
The door shook under a blast of wind. Now he was sure he heard a different noise.
“What could that be?”
He lifted his head and pricked up his ears.
Wrrrrrrrr . . .
It was a low sound that cut beneath the sandstorm. It was coming from outside.
“It sounds li
ke something spinning.”
Another blast of wind shook the entire house. When it receded, he heard it again: Wrrrrrrrr . . .
“That is no trick of the ears! There is something out there.” Now the whirring noise mixed with the clamor of the sandstorm, sometimes sounding high, sometimes low, now far in the distance, now right outside the door. Plato sat up in bed. Slipping on his sandals and his sheepskin tunic, he made his way to the door and swung it open.
The storm hit him with its full force. He shrank back as the sand blasted his nose, mouth, and eyes. Clinging to the wall for support, he lowered his face and listened.
Wrrrrrrrr . . .
It was coming quite clearly from the village square. Staggering into the gale, Plato took one step, then two steps into the dark, swirling cloud of sand. When he had gone a dozen or more paces, he could stand against the wind no longer, and he fell to the ground, choking on grit.
To his ears came that sound—
Wrrrrrrrr . . .
He could hear it louder than ever before.
Plato lifted his torso off the ground, struggling for purchase in fine sand that gave way at the slightest touch. His scrabbling hands reached out until the tips of his fingers found the flat surface of a large stone. Getting both hands on the solid mass, he was finally able to push himself to his feet. No sooner was he upright, however, than a wave of dizziness swept over him.
Someone’s hand on his back steadied him.
“Lord Orionae, how weary you must be. You have not had a moment’s rest for two or three days.”
Orionae? Who’s that? The melancholy question drifted through Plato’s mind, but a moment later recognition came—
Ah, of course. I am Orionae. Plato nodded inwardly. And I am rather tired.
He had the unsettling sensation that his feet were not his own, and it irritated him greatly. “We must hurry, Europa. The Council will begin shortly.” Plato-who-was-Orionae looked back at his Minister of Finance. Europa was a trusted advisor, his chief counselor when it came to all matters of money. With the kingdom facing such danger, Europa’s arm was one of the few things that Orionae could rely upon.
There were stairs ahead, stone steps leading downward. Orionae descended, entering the shadow of the high gables of the palace. The great bulk of the edifice hid the night sky. Soldiers stood guard before the giant four-paneled golden doors; they snapped to attention, then immediately bowed and moved aside.
As he stepped into the Grand Corridor, Orionae turned to look back upon the night city. From this vantage point he could take in the entire sea of lights spreading beneath the palace hill. White lights. He was able to make out the individual windows of houses all the way from the base of the hill out to the banks of the first canal. Beyond that, the lights became an indistinguishable flood of brilliance that stretched unbroken to the Sea of Atlantis beyond. In the daytime, he would be able to see the shining blue of the ocean, but now all was cloaked in darkness. The city looked as it had looked every night for the past several decades. Nothing changed, nothing out of the ordinary at all. Nowhere the slightest hint of sorrow or tragedy. Only the good life, and the elegant music, sculpture, poetry and song to which that life gave birth. The night was adorned with quickening glory. The hours just after the sunset were the city’s happiest, and Atlantis was enjoying them to the fullest.
Surely it would remain this way—for one hundred, one thousand, even ten thousand years; the nighttime sea of light never faltering, never failing. Every citizen believed this, and Orionae himself had accepted it as an incontrovertible fact upon which he could rely.
“Let us go, Lord Orionae.” Europa’s voice sounded softly behind him.
“Europa. Have you ever imagined the moment it ends? The moment in which the city of Atlantis—Poseidon’s metropolis, in all her glory and prosperity—will crumble?”
Europa made no reply, but turned to look instead at the giant mural upon the corridor wall.
Orionae shook his head. “Forgive me, Europa. It was an unfair question. I myself would never have given such terrible thoughts any consideration until three or four days ago. And yet, I feel as though this is something we should have thought about before, and deeply. I believe we have let ourselves get carried away with our rich life and its many pleasures. We have been careless.” Orionae cast his eyes once more upon the sea of light below them, then turned, robes swirling, and strode into the building.
The many kings had already assembled in the great council chamber on the first level. Dozens of light projectors set along the walls cast several layers of illumination upon the floor, leaving the vast vaulted ceiling in shadow where it hung high above their brilliance.
When Orionae entered the chamber the kings turned to look at him with desperate pleading in their eyes. He moved to the table in the center of the open space, feeling the weight of their collective gaze upon him. How well he understood that he would not be able to give them what they wanted. He took his seat, feeling something leaden fill his breast, and he placed the dossier Europa offered him upon the tabletop. An oppressively heavy air hung in the council chamber. Not a word was spoken between the assembled.
For the first time since the kingdom’s birth, there was no hope to be found in this meeting of the highest council.
A bell rang. The sound shook the air in the chamber; several of the kings broke out in a cold sweat.
“His Majesty King Atlas the Seventh and the king’s father, Poseidonis the Fifth,” the voice of Privy Counselor Ilias sounded over the loudspeaker.
Two large golden panels adorned with an engraved map of the kingdom stood at the front of the chamber. Now they opened silently, revealing a large stage beyond. In the center of the stage were two chairs, each as large as a small house. Fashioned of solid silver, the chairs seemed even larger for their simple, unadorned lines. Now another wall behind the stage slid soundlessly open and two figures appeared, swaying like tiny trees beneath headdresses so large they seemed as if they might scrape the very ceiling. Simultaneously the two figures lifted their bronzed faces to gaze across the council chamber, eyes like flame burning into the hearts of the assembled kings. With utmost serenity they took their thrones, one in the center and one slightly behind.
The king in the forward throne addressed the throng. “I would now hear your final plans. I have already revealed my thoughts to you in writing. What I consider most important is this: that we move the base of our economy and the functions of our government and citizenry to Atlanta, land of our forebears. My method of rule, though experimental, has shown tremendous success over these many years, for which I have your unfailing cooperation to thank. The success of my kingdom will serve as a very important guide for future planetary development. So, you see, remaining here is not an option. Let us hear your plans for the exodus now. Legate, speak.” The king’s sonorous voice betrayed no hint of hesitation. Rich and textured, it rolled across the chamber like a thick carpet unfurling.
Orionae stood, taking a deep breath to still the fluttering in his breast. “I hereby pledge anew my ever deepening fealty toward Your Majesty Atlas the Seventh, King of Kings, and to the king’s father, Poseidonis the Fifth. With your leave, I would speak on Your Majesty’s proposed move to the kingdom of Atlanta . . .
“Your Majesty,” he continued, “we have thought deeply on this all day and all night, and though as your humble servants it pains us to say this, we feel that, given the current circumstances, the exodus you propose is not realistic.”
All present in the chamber froze. So still were the gathered kings that it seemed they had ceased even to breathe. A long silence passed as they felt that stillness weigh upon them. At last, the clear tones of Atlas the Seventh rang out.
“Legate, I know well the realities of the situation. As I said the other day, I wanted you to consider my plan despite the circumstances. I’m not unaware of your struggle. But you must realize that this is all part of a very detailed development program laid out by the Planetary De
velopment Committee. All we do is informed by their larger design. The proper steps must be taken at the prescribed times! Assembled members of the Council, this is Heaven’s will—and when I speak of Heaven, you know I do not refer to some abstract concept, some artifact of the human psyche. That is why, Legate, I asked you to consider with all haste a means by which we can make this exodus a reality.”
Tiny beads of sweat glistened in the deep wrinkles running across Orionae’s brow.
“Your Majesty,” he began after a moment, “we are able to live in this rare paradise solely due to your overwhelming benevolence, and for this we are immensely grateful. Yet so perfect is this paradise that I fear the people will not be able to understand why we must leave it to move to an unknown land. Our orchards are filled with bountiful fruit, our factories work tirelessly, our merchant ships, our hospitals, our schools, all bring happiness to our people. But our citizens are conservative in the extreme, Your Majesty. All the more so because their lives are so blessed. They are well satisfied with the bounty of their homeland. Were we to tell them they must leave their home for another, that we must move our kingdom entire, it would bring chaos. Please, Your Majesty. We beg your understanding in this matter. With all our hearts we beg it of you.”
Orionae felt the strength in his body rush out through his pores. He had managed to fulfill at least a part of his responsibility by relating to the king what had been decided over the last two or three days in the provincial assemblies.
“Legate.” Atlas the Seventh spoke again, his voice devoid of compromise. “You have not answered my question in a satisfactory manner. I asked you to describe to me your plans for the exodus of the Kingdom of Atlantis.”