The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  Signar received all this with surprising seriousness. “And what are the tenets of this new faith?” he asked.

  “They acknowledge but one God, which is an improvement. Moreover, they declare this God is a loving but just father, all-seeing, omnipotent, wise, merciful. And strange to relate, this God hath no mistresses. A stern and austere God, is it not? He is concerned, so say these savages, only with the making of all men righteous, preparatory to giving them eternal peace. He is, so they say, angered by the sins of this present generation because of their idolatry and superstition. With this I agree. However, He is also an enemy of joy, feasting and pleasure. This I do not agree with. Indeed, I would like to discuss the matter with Him, and I might well lead Him to repent His obvious obtuseness.”

  Signar laughed appreciatively. “I am amazed that these men can secure converts to such a spoilsport God.”

  Salustra shook her head. “These men appeal to fear, to which mankind is ever vulnerable.”

  “Is this Jehovah young and beautiful?” asked the Emperor.

  Salustra half smiled. “I gather that He is old and bearded and ugly. But that may be a prejudice on the part of His servants. Many of them are old and bearded and ugly, and man has a tendency to create His god in his own image.”

  She frowned and lowered her voice so that only he could hear her. “I would ordinarily tolerate these men, but they are more obnoxious than ever since the disturbance of the sea a few nights ago. They say this was a warning. And the people are listening to them. I have almost a mind to turn Jupia upon them. She will make short work of these dangerous rivals.”

  Signar’s interest mounted. Why he could not say. “And what occurred in court this morning?” he asked.

  “Several were arrested and brought to me for judgment. I talked to them. They were not afraid of me, though they expected death. They replied to my questions clearly and with dignity. They told me that they had been sent from some distant place, which they would not name, to warn mankind that their Creator’s wrath was about to fall upon them.”

  She laughed as she thought about it. “I drew them out. I involved them in a discussion as to their Jehovah. ‘But we have nothing in this life except a few scattered grains of pleasure,’ I said to the leader, a black-bearded man with fierce eyes.

  “‘Happiness and pleasure are not one and the same,’” he responded. ‘Happiness is the deep peace in the heart of him who knoweth God’s will. Happiness comes to him who hears the voice of God in the still of the evening and to him who knoweth that the work of his hands is good and that he hath done evil to no man. Pleasure is the lethal drug of the man who hath fled God and of him who knoweth that his hand hath wrought no good thing and that evil and malice are in his heart.’”

  Salustra gave the Emperor a candid look. “And dost thou know, Sire, though I smiled, I knew that he spoke the truth? No man seeks pleasure as assiduously as the unhappy man. No man drinks so deeply as he who hath sorrows to numb. No man laughs so loud as he whose heart is breaking. No man seems so gay as he who hath a bad conscience. Even so, I shrink at the austerity of the life which these men advocate.”

  The Emperor nodded in apparent agreement. “Thy life is too exhilarating for such sterility,” he said.

  Jupia, sitting in silence behind the royal pair, now leaned forward and gazed at the Empress. “It is strange to hear thee speak of the gods, Majesty.”

  Salustra glanced at Signar humorously, ignoring her High Priestess. “The gods are very convenient. They should be ministers of art and beauty; otherwise, they should be abolished.”

  As she spoke the musical prelude suddenly ceased. A giant shadow, like a meteor, had streaked across the sky, darkening the arena for a moment, and thousands of uneasy eyes turned skyward.

  “It is too dry for rain,” remarked the Empress, trying by her example to pass off the second ominous phenomenon in a week as of little moment.

  Signar bent his head to catch a remark of Ganto.

  “How calm is the wanton!” whispered Signar’s general. “She thinks herself as secure as yonder mountain. She will have an awakening tomorrow!”

  At Signar’s frown, Mahius leaned forward and said in an undertone to the Empress, “Majesty, I like not the look of things. See how Signar whispers.”

  Salustra gazed at the Emperor. His pale eyes were fixed, unseeing, upon the stage.

  Actors had begun to appear on the platform below. In the unprecedented heat they were sweltering in their heavy robes. But they were soon distracted by the majestic power of their drama. It was a simple play, which many thought especially timely. It appeared that once there lived in a sinful city one righteous man. The temples of the gods were deserted, this man complained, and men were engrossed in lewd pursuits. The righteous observer of all this corruption, one Ionto, rigorously pursued his abstemious life. He prayed thrice daily to the gods and was often the only worshipper in the temples. He had one daughter, a graceful maid, who loved life and pleasure. Accordingly, she, too, was accursed.

  One day as he was praying in the temple, Ionto was visited by one of the gods, who appeared to him in a cloud as a radiant youth. He told the amazed Ionto that the gods had decided to destroy the city for its sins. Ionto begged that the gods stay their hand. The youth, relenting somewhat, directed that Ionto build an altar in the center of the city and there sacrifice his daughter. The gods would then spare the city.

  Ionto was overwhelmed with grief. Uncertainly, he returned home to surprise his daughter in the arms of a lover. His mind was made up. But questioning now the virginity of his daughter, he wondered whether the gods would accept so impure a vessel. This wrinkle in the play never failed to delight the audience, as Ionto attempted to explain to his impious daughter, with gestures, what constituted a loss of virginity. In desperation, he concluded finally that all women were fools and that the virginity of their minds could never be violated. So perhaps the gods would grudgingly accept her, at least as being mentally intact.

  He built an altar of the most magnificent proportions, much to the enjoyment of the sinful populace. Then, after he had heaped the altar with flowers, he dragged forth his daughter, lifted the screaming girl upon the altar and, to the public stupefaction, sank his sword into her bared breast.

  As the girl expired, the avenged god appeared again, radiant and pleased. Ionto knelt reverently, but the outraged multitude stared at the god in sullen silence. And then, with a cry of grief, the girl’s lover, hitherto in the wings save for his one previous act, leapt upon the stage. He drew his sword and sprang upon the smiling god. He buried his sword in the god’s breast. The sound of thunder rent the air. A glistening robe, representing a cloud, fell over the god as he crumpled to the floor. The lover tore the cloud aside, and, lo, the god had disappeared and a loathsome reptile was in his place. Turning on Ionto, the lover slew him and then drove the sword into his own heart.

  It was normally a cynical play. Ionto was made to appear a half-mad fanatic, the daughter a little wanton full of the love of life, the god hypocritical, desiring the girl himself, the lover a righteous avenger.

  The spectators, who had seen this play many times, always enjoyed it immensely. They always shouted with laughter over the command that Ionto sacrifice his daughter to save the city. They always groaned when the maid was slain. They always glowered as the god appeared, shrieked with approbation when the lover slew the god and when the god assumed his rightful form, that of a reptile. They had always shouted their approval when Ionto was slain by the lover and always wept when the lover slew himself.

  But today the humor of the audience had unaccountably changed. They watched the play in uneasy silence, glancing at the darkened sky with fear. When Ionto was told the gods had decided to destroy the city, the people shivered as though touched by a cold wind. When he threw his daughter upon the altar, there was a faint splatter of applause, and after a brief hesitation the rest of the amphitheater took it up until the air rang with their tribute.

&n
bsp; “Gods!” muttered Salustra, her fingers playing with the gem at her throat.

  Jupia smiled darkly and fixed malevolent eyes upon the Empress. Her priests had worked well!

  The play continued. The god appeared; the lover leapt upon the stage and slew the god. The people groaned. Salustra leaned forward from the imperial box and watched tensely. The cloud, simulated by a cloth, fell upon the god; the lover kicked the fabric aside, and the reptile was revealed. The people groaned again, shouting. Through the maze of noise protests were heard against this blasphemy. The Empress sat as if frozen into immobility. Then the lover slew Ionto to a renewed storm of protest and groans, and finally slew himself. At this final act, the people rose and applauded wildly;

  women sobbed, men shouted. The players themselves were unnerved and hurriedly left the stage. And then, as if at a signal, thousands of faces were turned toward the Empress.

  Signar stared in astonishment. It needed no subtlety to recognize that something momentous was taking place. He glanced at Jupia. She alone was serene among those in the royal box.

  “The people are displeased,” quavered Mahius, but Salustra did not hear him. Her eyes were moving slowly over the standing multitude. She smiled contemptously.

  Signar touched her arm, “Let us go,” he whispered. “I like not their air.”

  As Signar rose the multitude burst into shouts of acclamation. “Let us go,” he said again.

  “Go?” she repeated softly. “Shall I prove to these jackals that the daughter of Lazar is afraid of such as they?”

  Salustra lifted her hand imperiously. At the signal, bronze gates to the arena flew open to the sound of trumpets and the great wrestler Noti, beloved of the Lamorans, appeared with the champion from the Fifth Province. The people resumed their seats in silence and the games began. The naked bodies of the contending athletes gleamed in the yellow light, their huge muscles straining. Enthusiastic roars greeted each dexterous move of Noti. Feverish betting began. When Noti finally overcame his opponent, the amphitheater shook with applause.

  Racers followed on foot and on horse, then weight-throwers, jumpers, jugglers, singers, musicians, magicians, comedians, pugilists, lion-tamers. The people began to be bored and grew restless, uneasy, sullen. The heat seemed to increase; the sky was definitely darkening, and thunder, ominous, muttering, clattered through the burning air. Many began to look speculatively at the exits. Even the lion-tamer failed to hold their attention, with the beasts angrily springing at the cracking of the whip.

  And then another ominous incident took place.

  The pent-up atmosphere of the theater must have communicated itself to the sensitive beasts in their pit. Growling savagely, a big cat unexpectedly reared up and snatched at the tamer’s whip. All might still have gone well had not the tamer stumbled and fallen headlong. Instantly, the beasts were upon him. The agonized shrieks of the victim unnerved the multitude, they shouted in incoherent sympathy, which was itself not without its excitement and delight.

  Slaves and guards ran into the arena armed with pikes. The spectators scrambled over each other in morbid attempts to see all that was happening. The lions turned upon them, bowling over many with blood-stained claws. Dozens were crushed in the jam and women shrieked and fainted. Blood began to form in little pools.

  Signar, considering the violence might be contagious, stood deliberately beside Salustra. In a few moments, however, the lions had all been slain, the dead were gathered up, and the rain began to come down in sheets. In the thundering downpour, the imperial party hastily withdrew, with Signar and his group bringing up the rear.

  30

  An ominous stillness hung over Lamora. Overhead, the sky was lost in black brooding cloud. The sea, growling uneasily, roughly lashed the shore. The air was full of sinister expectancy.

  Signar, preparing to join Salustra in her apartments, looked out gloomily on this melancholy scene. The air was hot but an icy current blew through it. The Emperor, from his window, noticed that the guard about the Palace had been multiplied. Soldiers carrying flame-throwers paced resolutely before the gates. Creto moved quietly among them. The Emperor smiled and then sighed. He had already given his own orders. Everything was ready, waiting for his word.

  Salustra, meanwhile, had given her commands to Creto. “I have none to trust except thee, Creto,” she said gravely. “Do thy work well. If I fail, I shall still have use for thee.”

  “Majesty, my life is thine,” responded the young Prefect, kneeling and kissing her feet.

  “I am full of presentiments,” said the Empress wearily. “Thou didst mark the uncertain temper of the people at the theater today.”

  “They are afraid,” he said slowly. “Jupia’s priests have been muttering to the people for some time, and after the disturbance of the sea they renewed their warnings of catastrophe and blamed it on thee.”

  Salustra nodded grimly. “Thou wilt bring Jupia to me tomorrow. And, Creto, the imperial guards, they are still faithful?”

  A shadow touched Creto’s face. “They would die for thee, Majesty,” he said mechanically.

  After dismissing Creto, she arrayed herself as one about to die or become a bride. She bathed, submitted to being rubbed with perfumed oils, garbed herself in a robe of transparent silver. On her arms gleamed jeweled bands; at her throat her father’s gem seemed to glitter with increased fire; snuggled in a fold of her robe was the vial of poison.

  As Salustra fingered the vial, the curtains stirred and parted, and without a sound Signar entered. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence. Salustra, with a smile, gave the Emperor her hand. “Ah, Sire,” she said languidly, “it is an evil night. Hast thou noted how the heavens and sea seem to leap together?”

  “Evil is—” he stood looking at her “—as evil does.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled. “Let us dine.”

  Signar had a sudden desire to delay the inevitable hour. “Nay, not yet, Salustra,” he said. She sighed and sat down upon a silken divan and lowered her eyes to the floor. Signar, after a moment’s irresolution, seated himself beside her.

  For an instant he was moved to tell her he knew of her plans. Then he dismissed the thought, hoping that Salustra herself might abandon her plot. He studied her haggard profile; her eyes had dark shadows beneath them. She looked thin. Hope began to form in his heart. Surely this manifest anguish could have but one meaning.

  She turned and faced him, her lips parted as though she would speak, and then, under the gentleness of his regard, a dull crimson crept over her face. She rose quickly and went out upon the colonnade. After a moment he joined her. A howling wind lifted their garments and took their breath away. At one moment the city was in darkness, the next a ghastly vista of black and silver in the sky-splitting lightning. The sea, black, foaming, fanged, crashed upon the land, and behind, overlooking them, Mount Atla was muttering again.

  “How violent the night!” cried Signar over the uproar. “And yet how magnificent! It makes one desire to shout with the wind and leap with the sea.”

  Salustra moved a step beyond him. She looked at the heavens and then very slowly lifted her arms as if in supplication. The gale blew her hair about her like a streamer and molded her shimmering silver robe to her slim, sensuous figure like a winding sheet.

  Signar watched her fascinated. To what wild god was she praying? To what terrible spirit was her own spirit speaking?

  When she turned back to him, her face was as impassive as the face of the dead. She stepped back into her chamber as though she walked in a dream. He followed her, his depression increasing. He moved to the table, waiting for her to seat herself, and watched her covertly.

  Tyrhia had warned of poisoned wine. But he had determined, as well, to eat and drink nothing that the Empress did not share. She held out a dish of fruit; he picked an orange that was nearest to her. She urged him to partake of the small candied doves, but he took only that bird which touched the one she had taken, and then merely picked at it
. She offered him the golden cakes; he was careful to lift one cake from under those at the top. The crystal goblets on the table were already filled with wine. Was his already poisoned?

  “Thou art eating but little, Sire,” she chided him.

  He glanced at her own plate. She had touched nothing. “Neither art thou,” he responded. Salustra forced herself to eat, but the food formed a lump in her throat.

  Signar looked across the table at his imperial hostess. He watched her white hands moving slowly. Her eyes were half-closed, as though she were suffering unbearable agony.

  “What a strange world we live in!” he said, following the train of his own gloomy thoughts. “That which we desire above all things is denied us. That for which others envy us fills us with indifference. Is it some perversity in our nature which makes us covet that which we have not, or has some malevolent god decreed that whatever we desire shall not be given unto us?”

  Salustra lifted her eyes to his. “I believe,” she joined, “that the gods amuse themselves by tormenting us. They fire us with thirst, then give us stagnant water with which to quench that thirst. They endow the sensitive with majestic desires, with yearnings for beauty, with radiant spirits with which they might enjoy glorious things, and then let these unhappy wretches eat out their hearts in unsatisfied longings.”

  “Or,” said Signar in a low voice, “they give us love which consumes us alternately with joy and anguish, and decree that this love is lavished on those who love us not.”

  Signar had not as yet touched his wine, nor had Salustra tasted hers. He studied the red liquid in the crystal goblet. Was it only his fancy which made it appear that it had a different hue from that in the Empress’ goblet? He looked closer at his wine. Little bubbles rose continually to the surface. Against his will, a conviction that it was poisoned possessed him.