The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  They had paused in the shadow of the Palace porticoes.

  Signar regarded the Empress with a new compassion. “Thou art concerned with Atlantis’ soul. When a nation concerns itself with its soul, it is already decaying. Just as a young ardent man identifies only with the vital present, so I believe that a young, ardent nation identifies only with the vital present. Only the old and feeble worry about the soul.”

  Salustra smiled. “Atlantis may be old,” she said, “but she is not feeble, as her enemies may learn.”

  Signar’s face became a blank mask as he calmly changed the subject. “Thou hast not forgotten, Salustra, that I am giving a quiet entertainment for thee on board my flagship, Postia, this evening?”

  “Nay, how could I forget?” answered the Empress with equal blandness.

  They parted with a smile and an embrace awkwardly given and awkwardly received, and Salustra retired to her apartment. Upon entering her chamber, she promptly sent for Mahius.

  The minister found her pacing agitatedly up and down the colonnade. “How soon may we strike?” she demanded without preamble.

  The old man hesitated. “Thou art determined upon this man’s death, Majesty?”

  “Yes, he must die.”

  “Is there no other way?” asked the minister sadly. “I do not like treachery.”

  “There is no other way!” cried the Empress. “If I could spare him, I would not!”

  Mahius stared at her in unfeigned surprise. “And why not?”

  She did not answer. For a long time the old man peered into her face, and then, very slowly, understanding touched his face like a shadow. He fell to his knees and pressed her robe to his cheek. “Poor lady,” he cried.

  26

  From the sea came a murmur like the sigh of a woman unloved, a restless despairing murmur. Otherwise, an ominous silence filled the air.

  As she breathed deeply of the night air, frowning at a new, trenchant odor, the cool wind lifted Salustra’s hair and flung it to the breeze. She felt free and untrammeled, as she had only infrequently as a child. And then, like a stab, came the thought of Signar and the knowledge that both could not survive.

  In a chamber beyond, slave girls were singing moodily. She half listened to the melancholy lyrics:

  Thou dost ask me why I weep, my maid.

  Now hark, while I tell thee why.

  I weep for a corpse that is barely laid,

  And the light in a vanished eye.

  For lips I loved and no longer love:

  For these do I groan and sigh.

  Vile poetry! thought Salustra. Nevertheless, the singular aptness of the song sent a shiver down her spine.

  Deep in thought, she started as she felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned quickly and saw a familiar face.

  Silently Erato knelt and kissed her hands.

  She studied him with dispassionate eyes. He rose to his feet and after a moment of hesitation kissed her lips, recoiling at an unresponsiveness that was totally unexpected.

  “What aileth thee, Salustra?” he whispered.

  She smiled ironically. “Can an Empress not feel out of sorts at times, or is such an indulgence accorded only the lowly?”

  He touched her cold cheek with uncertain fingers. “No darkness is so great that dawn will not come again,” he said with loving gentleness.

  “Doth this pass for poetry?” she asked sardonically.

  He looked at her in bewilderment. “Thou art weary, Salustra. I tell thee again, there are many years of happiness for thee in the future.”

  “Perhaps in death. For in death is the great and unknowing peace.” Her arms fell to her sides and her head drooped. “I am tired,” she said dully. “I would that I might die this hour.”

  Erato smiled. “Thou art depressed, dear one,” he said tenderly. “Tomorrow thy mood will change.”

  “Tomorrow I will still be myself. It is strange,” she added as though speaking to herself, “that the trap one sets for another so often traps oneself. That I, always unloving, should be at last unloved.”

  Erato was understandably bewildered. “Nay, I do love thee, Salustra!” he cried. He caught her in his arms and kissed her rapturously. She closed her eyes for a sweet moment, imagining him to be another. Suddenly, with an anguished cry, she thrust him from her.

  He recoiled as though shot. “Thou dost not love me, Salustra,” he said with a sob.

  Salustra watched him half sadly, a twisted smile upon her lips. “Wilt thou do me a great favor tonight?” she asked in her usual voice.

  “Thou hast but to ask, Salustra.” He had quickly caught hold of himself.

  “Then do not attend the festivities on Signar’s flagship.”

  His look turned to one of surprise.

  “It is my wish, Erato.”

  He bowed. “So be it.”

  Still shaken, he left a few moments thereafter, for the first time without kissing her.

  Erato returned to his house, filled with the gravest misgivings. His step was slow and heavy, his heart profoundly depressed. He threw himself upon a couch that looked out on the sea.

  Tossing restlessly, Erato thought bitterly. He had discounted stories of the Empress’ capriciousness, thinking with a lover’s egotism that he had been the one finally to touch that fickle heart. And now she was already wearying of him. He sat up in an agony of insane jealousy. “Salustra!” he cried in anguish. He beat his clenched fists upon his forehead in a frenzy of hate and resentment. One moment he convinced himself that he hated her; the next he was overcome by his consuming passion. His despair and suffering mounted. He shivered at the memory of that passion. What fool had said that the male was the predator of the species? He, Erato, had spiritually been a pure and crystalline stream emptying into a murky pool. The women he had known before the Empress were all shadowy and indistinguishably impersonal gratifications of a physical desire. His inner spirit had remained untouched until Salustra had reached out and taken his love. In the frenzy of rejection he now felt contaminated by her insincerity.

  “I can never write again!” he cried despairingly. “I am unclean!”

  Without his noticing, the curtains of the chamber parted softly and a slave girl entered. He looked at her with a jaundiced eye. “A lady wishes to see thee, my Lord,” she murmured respectfully.

  Erato leapt to his feet. His despair vanished as did his hate. He trembled now in anticipatory relief and delight. But his joy vanished as quickly as it had come. A veiled slight figure of a girl stood hesitantly in the center of the chamber. Erato regarded her in apathetic silence, almost blaming her for his disappointment. As she came toward him, she lifted her veil, revealing a pale, tear-stained face.

  As he remained silent, she fell upon his breast and smothered his lips with kisses. With a gesture almost of repugnance, he thrust her from him.

  She drew back, wounded, her childish lips quivering. Her veil slipped from her face, her yellow hair falling in damp rings about her cheeks. “Erato,” she murmured, “dost thou not love me a little?”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. “What art thou doing here?” he demanded. “Thy sister will punish thee for this folly. Art thou alone?”

  “Nay, I have my slaves with me. The gods only know how I was able to elude that frozen-faced Brittulia.”

  As she looked at him timidly, hoping for some crumb of affection, Erato’s soft heart melted. He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead lightly. “Why didst thou come, little one?”

  The girl clung to him, her eyes shining. “Because I love thee, Erato, and because I have found a way for us to be free.”

  As the girl pressed his hand first to her cheek, then to her lips, Erato felt faintly annoyed at his own blindness. He withdrew his hand and, seating himself, indicated that she assume a place beside him, a vastly older brother about to chide a silly little sister.

  The girl curled up beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her eyes fixed adoringly on his face. Under her ra
diant gaze, his stern resolution faltered. He could no more hurt her, he decided, than he could slap a child in the face.

  “Thou art reckless, Tyrhia,” he said firmly. “If thy visit is discovered, the Empress will be angered, and thy betrothed as well.”

  “What do I care?” she cried defiantly. She sat upright, eyes blazing, her childlike features sharpening with the passion of the moment. “I have a way for us to rid ourselves of her, Erato—forever.”

  He fixed intent eyes upon the girl, and a coldness passed over him. “Little fool!” he cried. “What art thou about?”

  She stared at him, startled. “The Senator Divona …” she began.

  “Dost thou trifle with those who would ruin the Empress?” he interrupted wrathfuly. “Tell me what he said to thee.”

  She began to tremble, her teeth chattering. “Nothing else,” she faltered, beginning to weep again.

  Erato fell into dark thought. The Empress must know, but how to protect this ridiculous child?

  And then, as a winding road suddenly opens up, disclosing unexpected vistas beyond, so did Erato suddenly see the bend in the road that took him inescapably to Signar.

  He glanced about wildly, then clapped his hands. Slaves immediately appeared. He ordered his sword and cloak, and when they were brought to him, he would have rushed from the chamber had not Tyrhia clutched his arm.

  “Where art thou going?” she asked tremulously.

  He fought off an impulse to seize her little throat and strangle her. Instead, he forced a smile. “I will first take thee home, child,” he said more calmly. “And now promise thou wilt never speak again to that traitor Divona.”

  The girl sobbed with relief. “Yes, I promise thee. We can find another way.”

  27

  Signar’s flagship, Postia, was alive with the signs of a gala evening. Lights glittered from every pole. Music drifted out over the water, above the gay laughter of the milling guests.

  Salustra had never looked more beautiful or alluring. All eyes turned to her with mingled envy and admiration as she came aboard with the inevitable Creto. She was met by an attentive Signar and ceremoniously conducted below decks to a throne beside his own. She settled herself comfortably, her eyes picking out familiar faces. The present guests included the Senators Contani, Divona, Tilus, Patios, Vilio, Contalio, Sicilo and Toliti, with their gaily attired wives and mistresses. Of the philosophers, Zetan, Morti and Talius were the only ones represented. Among the industrial giants she noticed Ratulio, the great steel-maker; Hanlio, manufacturer of fine silks and linens; Ducius, the builder; graybeard Seneco, with his newly acquired young wife, defiantly ablaze with gems. Icio, the inventor, was also present. But most of the guests were from Signar’s own court.

  Salustra gave her host a pleasant smile. “I regret, Sire, that thy betrothed, the Princess Tyrhia, was indisposed.”

  He shrugged indifferently. “With thee present, Majesty, who would note the absence of other women or even children?”

  Salustra kept her eyes half-averted. She seemed hardly a part of the company. Abstracted, she barely touched her lips to the wine.

  “Thou art not drinking, Salustra!” exclaimed Signar. “I swear to thee that it is not poisoned.”

  Salustra started and the color receded from her cheeks. Her brows came truculently together. For a moment the two rulers held each other’s gaze, and then, very deliberately, Salustra lifted the goblet to her lips and drained the contents.

  Signar’s amusement increased. “Who is sadder,” said Signar, “than the sober in a company of drunkards?”

  “A wise man in a company of fools!” retorted the Empress warmly.

  Signar laughed and clapped his hands. His look took in the assembled revelers. “It is true they are on their way to being drunk, but surely thou art no Brittulia.”

  Salustra smiled disdainfully. “I am a hater of nothing that contributes to pleasure. But pleasure lies in doing the thing one desires to do. I do not wish to drink, therefore drinking is no pleasure to me.”

  Signar filled her goblet again. “Sad, that my entertainment is lost upon thee.” His face had become flushed with wine. He moved closer to Salustra, his breath on her cheek. “I have an enemy,” he whispered.

  “Who would hurt thee, Sire?” she asked mockingly.

  He leaned toward her, lifted her hand, and inspected the rings on her fingers, closing over the signet. She looked down at the crown of his bent head, and closed her eyes, as if to blot out the reality of her own emotions.

  “Nevertheless, I have an enemy,” he continued, examining the rings closely. “This enemy is ruthless, insatiable, hating and hated. This enemy is myself. I can pit my strength against others. But there is one I cannot defeat, one that devours my spirit, and darkens my brain, myself. I might lay waste empires, and breathe life into a thousand legions, cause great vessels to move at my slightest whim. But my own bitter thoughts numb my hand, turn my wine to gall and my food to dross.”

  He released her hand, fixed his eyes upon her, and spoke slowly, as though measuring the effect of his words. “I am lost,” he said, “vanquished by an enemy which is my own executioner.”

  She smiled sardonically. “Thy digestion is disordered, Sire. Allow me to send my physician here tomorrow.”

  The mood of this remarkable man suddenly changed and he laughed over the crowd, slapping his knee as he did so. “And what will he prescribe for the relief of my inner demands, Salustra? What will quench my restless yearnings, my alternating hopes and despair?”

  She refused to take him seriously. “I am convinced that thou hast been feasting too generously and exercising too parsimoniously, Sire.”

  He leaned toward her again and began to toy with the jewel at her throat. “I have always before known the gaiety of adventure, the lust of conquest.” He held her hand tightly. “What, thou dost not ask why?”

  Easily, almost perfunctorily, she replied, “I am convinced that under no circumstances wouldst thou give me the right answer.”

  He shook his head with undisguised mirth. “I will tell thee later. But now let us go to the banquet I have arranged.” He rose and gave his hand to the Empress. Together, they led the way to a still lower level, followed by the laughing guests.

  Salustra ate little and drank less. The noise, the heat, the confusion, all wearied her. She rested an elbow on the table and looked around her with a passionate longing for silence.

  Animals, she thought. Where is there a man who loves a woman except for her flesh?

  Feeling neglected, Signar reacted as a jealous man would. He conspicuously ignored the Empress now, transferring his attention to the wife of Morti, at his left. As befitted a philosopher’s wife, she was young, stupid and shamelessly lewd. It had been a bitter pill for the Empress when her favorite philosopher had married this ignorant, boorish female.

  Signar was not to be outdone in the area of entertainment. With a blare of trumpets, a handsome young man leapt on stage. Save for a garland of poppies about his loins, he was naked. As the music soared, several nude and shapely dancers tripped out in quick succession. These were the Virtues, seven in number, from Chastity and Charity, to Modesty and Truth. They screamed, shrank, veiled themselves and gathered before the divan of Sati. The goddess was sleeping, her lips parted in sweet slumber, her golden hair rippling about her and falling to the floor. The music became wilder, gayer, more sensual, more insidious. All present recognized in the dancing youth the personification of Tatio, Sati’s first lover.

  The youth circled merrily about the divan, seeking to dart between the ranks of the Virtues, who interposed themselves between him and the object of his desires.

  “Love’s eternal pursuit of beauty,” said Signar, turning back at last to Salustra, who was watching the scene with indifference.

  “Nay, say, rather, the eternal pursuit of lust for chastity.”

  Signar stared at her in assumed surprise. “May I credit my ears!” he exclaimed. “Surely thou, an adm
itted authority upon the subject of love, art not speaking so? Perhaps it is thou who shouldst consult the physician thou didst recommend to me?”

  She looked at the ribaldry beginning to take form about her. Had debauchery ever really pleased her, or had she been merely endeavoring to escape from her own intellectual isolation? She was conscious of a curious malaise. Tatio had moved closer to the Virtues, and then, to a clash of cymbals, he broke through their ranks, flung himself on his knees be side Sati’s divan. He caught the sleeping goddess’ hands, covered them with kisses; kissed her throat, breast and finally her lips. She awoke, saw beyond him the frightened Virtues and then, with an infinitely lazy smile, entwined her arms about his neck. At this the Virtues, led by Chastity, fled, weeping, into the darkness.

  Disgusted, ineffably bored, Salustra turned from Signar and got up abruptly. Before the others could rise with her, every light in the room suddenly went out. Under cover of darkness, she fled, as the Virtues had, up the stairway, holding her amethystine robes closely about her. The upper deck was deserted. It was silent, except for the sea, which was growling ominously. Even the gulls were strangely absent.

  She had fled the banquet in a tizzy that a young virgin might well have felt. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Am I a schoolgirl,” she asked herself, “to languish for love of a man I must destroy?”

  Drinking in the rather fetid night air, she turned to stroll the deck and found herself face to face with Signar.

  He was standing in silence, watching her. “Is my poor entertainment so worthless that thou must flee?” he asked. He took her hands as she began to tremble. “Why didst thou break that old crone’s crystal?” he whispered.