Although Lamora’s welfare benefits were notoriously liberal, beggars in droves, some blind and crippled, added their plaintive cries to those of the hawkers of goods. They angrily jostled a timid girl with a pinched pale face, meekly offering bunches of fresh wild flowers to the indifferent throngs, chiding her for not begging like themselves.
This sea of life surged about the impassive walls of the Palace amid rumors that its royal occupant was in a bad humor. It was whispered she had refused to see anyone that day. Messengers from the Nobles came and went without seeing anybody but her guards; Mahius himself could not gain an audience.
Toward sundown, as the milling throngs moved homeward for the evening meal, the western gate of the Palace, rarely used by the Empress, swung open, and a detachment of burly guards appeared with a heavily curtained litter.
In a short time, so rapidly did they move, they were at the portals of the Temple of Sati, in the shadow of a giant dome supported by a colonnade of great pillars, two hundred feet in height, with elaborately carved symbols of Atlantis’ history decorating their surfaces. Before bronze doors, fully fifty feet high, stood two enormous lions of Atlantis, so huge six men could sit side by side on each massive head.
Inside the temple, in the very center of the circular vastness, stood the altar with its eternal fire of Sati, attended by relays of silent, expressionless blue-clad vestals. So vast was the interior that men and women appeared like dolls under the arching gloom of the lofty dome. The altar fire gave off a spiral of thin blue smoke that heightened the senses.
As the great bronze doors opened noiselessly, a woman entered. For a moment, she hesitated, looking about her. The temple was empty, as usual at sunset, save for the guardians of the flame, for then Sati went to her rest. After that momentary hesitation, the visitor moved slowly to the altar. The vestals, visibly startled, made obeisance, then returned mechanically to their duties.
As Salustra knelt before the altar, her cloak fell from her and lay like a pool of blood upon the marble floor. At the altar, two virgins stood immobile, hands folded like pale lilies across their breasts, their eyes downcast, the pristine pallor of their faces the color of white stone. The altar flame rose like a restless serpent in a spiral of pungent smoke.
Salustra knelt, motionless. Why had she come here? She had no faith, no prayer to make to those in whom she professed not to believe. Was it because her heart ached with a nameless longing, and in her loneliness she had reverted to the comforting patterns of childhood? Or was it because only here could she find the quiet of the grave and the peace that passeth understanding?
She sighed, half-mockingly. The pious might say that my sins are consuming me, she thought, smiling a little. But I am conscious of no guilt. So why have I come?
She was aware in that instant of a sudden pang in her breast. She clenched her hands so tightly that the nails dug into the flesh. She was aware, too, of an instant’s sickness of soul, a sort of deadly disgust and loathing of everything, including herself. The attack was so intense that it dried her lips and filled her mouth with the taste of ashes; it was profound, prostrating. Her heart thudded against her chest. She raised her eyes to the altar flame. Ah, could I but rise above the world’s lusts, passions, lies and hypocrisies, she thought passionately. But I am chained like others to the flesh. I am a prisoner in my own body. And while I am such a prisoner I must partake of the fare of my prison, and propitiate my jailers!
She was tired, disconsolate, discouraged. She longed for the peace of oblivion. Could it be found in death? No one had returned from the other side of that shadow—wall, and, though Jupia spoke of Lazar’s presence, she had dismissed any feeling she herself had as imagination. No voice had called from beyond, no warm and loving hand had made a signal. Not even an echo reached the fearful watchers here. Was the mystery of death too great for the comprehension of mortals? Were the gods beyond their understanding, as the sun is beyond the comprehension of a beetle? Or was there simply nothing? Was there only a void, a silence, a funnel of darkness? And all our religions, our elaborate rituals, our priests and our temples, they have taught us nothing, thought Salustra bitterly. Is it because we instinctively know that it is a sham, a puny effort to comfortably fill the black void? Is it because we realize that religion is merely a man-made fancy, sublimating his corrosive fear of utter annihilation? If we believe what we desire to believe, is religion then only the result of our wish that death not be the end?
She was suddenly overwhelmed at the excursion her mind had taken. I am maudlin, she thought angrily. She looked at the altar, and a black wave of despair assailed her. The gods! she thought. What gods?!
Her body seemed to droop, her fingers listlessly brushed the floor. For a while she knelt there, and then, suddenly sensing another presence, she looked up, startled. In forbidding rigidity beside her stood the High Priestess, Jupia.
The long robes and high headdress of the Priestess made her appear incredibly tall and cadaverous in the gloom, the flickering flame from the altar casting ghostly shadows over her gaunt features.
As though recognizing the hidden drama in this unexpected confrontation, Jupia made a half-mocking obeisance. “It is strange to find thee in the temple, Majesty,” she said in her flat voice.
Salustra quickly recovered her composure. “Yes.” She shrugged noncommittally.
“The Temple of Sati is honored,” said Jupia, and this time the sarcasm was unmistakable.
Salustra’s eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. She rose to leave. “Perhaps Sati will demonstrate her gratitude with a propitious tomorrow. Thou dost know that the Emperor Signar arrives in Lamora at that time.”
As she swept past the High Priestess without another glance, the leaping flame seemed to lend a malevolent cast to Jupia’s face.
At the bronze doors, Salustra turned and looked back. Jupia was still standing before the altar, her face and arms raised as though in supplication. She is death personified! thought the Empress with a shudder.
In a few minutes, she was in the solitude of her apartment, and stepped out onto the colonnade overlooking the mist-shrouded city. Sighing, she heard a sound behind her and, turning, saw that she was no longer alone. The poet Erato, a privileged companion since their first night together, stood beside her. She smiled and gave him her hand. Her eyes passed over him appreciatively, reveling in the breadth of his shoulders, his slenderness, grace, the handsome, sensitive face. She leaned her head on his shoulders and her hair brushed against his lips. For a long time they stood thus, looking silently out on the city.
“Is thy land as fair as Atlantis, Erato?” asked the Empress at last.
“Nay,” he answered gallantly, “for it doth not boast thee.”
She touched his cheek lightly. “Be not a courtier. There are too many jackasses in court now; do not begin to bray with them.”
“I despair of doing thee justice in mere words, beautiful Empress. Today I tried to write a poem to thee; my pen stammered, could not move. Words! How inadequate!”
“How horrible to think that I have robbed thee of thy fire, Erato!” she said banteringly. “And what have I given thee in exchange? Nothing!”
He fell to his knees and raised the hem of her gown to his lips. “Thou art my soul,” he cried.
“May the gods help thee!” she said.
He rose again, looked into her eyes, then kissed her passionately. She leaned forward in his arms, her eyes closed. Finally she stirred, and he released her.
She took his hand and held it to her cheek, “Thou art so young, Erato,” she said.
“So very little younger than thee, Salustra,” he replied quickly.
She smiled. “I am countless eons older than thee. Years are nothing. Only the soul must be reckoned, and my soul was born old and sad.”
He held a lock of her hair to his lips. “Thou art Sati then. For thou didst give me my soul.” His blue eyes glowed with tenderness.
“Thou art an idealist, Erato. Poets are p
oets only when they are young and in love and the world is all perfect sunsets and beauty.”
Erato released Salustra’s hand, but his eyes did not leave her face.
“Assuredly, it will be better for thee to die young,” said the Empress. “When beauty has gone, death comes as a kindly friend, bearing a crystal cup filled with the blessed waters of forgetfulness.”
Erato frowned in his concern. “Thou art sad tonight, Salustra.”
“Nay, I am but learning of life. With such learning comes much grief. A man has two choices, he may be either ignorant and happy, or wise and sad. If he is ignorant, he accepts life complacently, rejoicing that the sun warms him, and that his dinner of bread and stew is forthcoming, and that his wife hath a tender bosom. He does not think; therefore, he is content. But the knowledgeable man cannot be happy, otherwise he would not be knowledgeable. He cannot satisfy himself all is well so long as his digestive and sexual organs are functioning. He cannot understand why a man should be given consciousness to know suffering, and then merely die. He sees life as it is, a huge hoax. How, therefore, can he be happy?”
“Is happiness incompatible with wisdom?” asked Erato, smiling gently.
“Most assuredly. I favor eliminating happiness from the national language. In its place there shall be the word ignorance. Therefore, one will not say, ‘Behold, a happy man.’ He will say, ‘Lo, an ignorant man.’”
“Wouldst have us full of perpetual gloom and sadness, Salustra?” asked Erato wistfully. “The man who causes us to laugh, be the jest ever so vulgar, is thrice blessed compared with those who make us weep at some sublime tragedy.”
Erato fell into the brooding reverie of tormented love, his sad eyes upon the floor. Salustra was conscious of a faint pity akin to what a mother feels when she first tells her child of the pitfalls lurking in an evil world.
He finally raised his head. “Thou art so sure, Salustra,” he said slowly. “I should die if I were so sure that there was nothing here for us but ugliness and strife, that this world offers nothing but injustice, tragedy and despair. What hast thou then to sustain thee in the darkness of thy spirit?”
“Courage!” she replied. “Courage is the one virtue in this vile world. Courage is what keeps the knowledgeable from gibbering like apes in their agony of knowledge. To meet life gallantly, to smile gaily at its threats, to hope nothing, fear nothing, to fence with its manifold obstacles, laughing merrily the while. Ah! Only a great soul can manage that!”
“Then,” said Erato quietly, “thy philosophy is courage; mine, beauty. To me, they seem the same.”
He caught her hands and kissed them with renewed passion. “How could I do otherwise than believe that beauty still matters in a world which thou dost grace?”
There was a sudden dimness in her eyes. “Kiss me—” she smiled “—if thou hast the courage.”
13
They came out of their ships like conquerors, though there were only a few hundred of them. They trampled over garlands of flowers with arrogant strides. They lifted welcoming hands of salute to the hysterical hails of an Althrustrian vanguard gone mad at the sight of their Emperor. The harbor rang with their welcome, and the multitude churned like a veritable whirlpool, thousands pushing in every direction for a better view of Signar and his men.
Salustra turned her restless eyes for a glimpse of the Emperor and his barbaric followers. Tyrhia stood by her side, holding tightly her sister’s arm. Behind Salustra stood the uneasy Senators, lords, Nobles and their curious wives.
Her eyes finally found the figure they were seeking, a figure that rose imperially above the others, tall and herculean, with the winged helmet of Althrustri glittering on a proud head. Soon, she became aware that the group had paused before her. She felt a current of incredible vitality, as she felt her hand taken and a man’s rough lips upon that hand. The man now raised his head, and was looking down into her face. She saw, with an inexplicable thrill, a rugged countenance, almost the hue of copper. His magnificent figure was cloaked in a brilliant phosphorescent cloth, embroidered with blazing colors. His giant arms were banded with gold, and his fingers glittered with rare gems.
Behold the conqueror of Atlantis! whispered a mocking voice within her. She gave Signar a penetrating look. She saw, behind the dark eyes, a spirit as indomitable as her own. Black brows, almost meeting, gave those eyes a commanding fierceness. Boldly returning her gaze, he spoke for the first time, in the Atlantean tongue. His voice was surprisingly soft. “Thy pictures have not lied of thee, Salustra.”
She smiled faintly. ‘“But pictures have not done thee justice, Signar.” She gave him her hand again, and he held it, as she felt an unaccountable tingle up her spine. “Atlantis welcomes thee, Signar. More, I cannot say.”
Signar’s eyes moved over her confidently, lingering on every gentle swell and curve under the crimson robe.
Feeling herself blushing, Salustra turned slightly and brought Tyrhia forward. The girl shrank as Signar kissed her hand. Signar appeared not to notice, but the Empress’ face darkened.
The crowd broke into new acclamations as the imperial party slowly moved to the Palace. Signar lifted his hand at intervals as he walked between the rigid lines of soldiery, but Salustra seemed oddly distracted. Behind the royal pair streamed a queue of lords and Nobles. And bringing up the rear, Signar’s personal guards, helmets gleaming in the mist, fierce faces frankly showing their contempt for these soft southerners.
They had made the voyage in primitive vessels, powered by archaic fossil fuels laboriously extracted from the frozen tundra of Althrustri. The fleet, led by Signar’s flagship, the Postia, numbered five other vessels of a minor category and fire power, using explosives the Atlanteans had discarded for nuclear energy centuries before.
Signar had been distracted en route by the murky atmosphere that hung like a gray mantle over the sea. “A cheerless sky was our companion,” said he, as they walked together, “and I saw not the sun until I looked on thy radiant countenance.”
Salustra, surprised at his turn of a phrase, dismissed what she took for flattery, but picked up on the rest of his statement. “What thinkest thee of these clouds, Sire?”
He frowned for a moment. “A most strange occurrence; for with it our air seemed warmer, even without the sun, and the falling snow melted almost in the air. Our wise men know not what to make of it, but for what are wise men except to mystify?”
She looked at him sharply. “Dost know that our wise men relate the gray mist to our unprecedented stoppage of solar power?”
“I knew not the reason,” said Signar candidly, “only that the Atlantean technology had failed her at last.”
She could find no trace of triumph or elation in his face. “And so you considered the season propitious for your visit?”
“Thou givest thyself too little credit,” he said with a bow. “Thou alone art worth the voyage.”
She gave him an ironic glance. “In this weightless murk, the atom-splitter may not go off and thou losest thy advantage of caring not for human life.”
He shrugged. “Who determines of what importance life is? The dinosaurs had life and thy ancestors destroyed them with these fearsome weapons. Was not the dinosaur’s life as important to him as that of any ruler, councillor of state, doctor or shopkeeper?”
“Canst thou compare human life with that of animals?” Her voice was sharper than usual.
He gazed at her gravely. “This is a problem not of predicate but subject. Thou hast failed because thou hast not used thy power to properly protect thyself. Were it not for this nice sensitivity, we would not have made our move. And when the gods permitted the collapse of thy communication systems, they were surely giving us a message.”
She was amazed at his candor. “A ruler,” she said, “can go no further than his people.”
“Exactly.” He clapped his hands in vigorous assent. “And thine are a people corrupt and cowardly, looking to be fed, sheltered, entertained and otherwise pro
vided for from the cradle to the grave—a welfare state of parasites looking to enjoy the fruits of others’ labors.”
The Romance of Atlantis Page 11