The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  Signar flushed. “What new horrors dost thou contemplate?”

  “Let me keep Creto yet awhile.”

  “He must pay for thy misdeed.”

  Salustra threw back her head. “A king’s promise, Sire, is only as good as he.”

  He scowled darkly, and then his face cleared. “But know that one moment thereafter thou art at my disposal.”

  Before he could say any more she turned and left the chamber. There was no faltering in her step and her face was serene. She looked every bit a queen, and Signar’s eyes followed her in rapt silence.

  “See the way the wind blows!” whispered the minister, Ganto, to the general, Siton. “I shall hasten to pay my most humble and royal court to that beautiful vixen.”

  Siton frowned. “And I, too.”

  Upon returning to her apartments, Salustra had a surprise awaiting her. Her anteroom was crowded, no Senators, no courtiers were they, nor the Nobles who had formerly fawned upon her. They were the philosophers, Yonis, Talius, Everus, Zetan, Lodiso, Morti, and a group of scientists.

  They hastened to greet her and kissed her hands with reverence. “Ah, sirs,” she said in a shaken voice, “I little expected that you would remember me.”

  “How could we forget our noblest friend, our most understanding patron, our kindest benefactress?” cried Zetan. “Thou dost give us little credit, Majesty, for ordinary gratitude.”

  “Gratitude?” she echoed bitterly. “I have always said: ‘Dost thou desire an enemy? Then, assist thy friend!’” Nevertheless, it was evident that she was moved by their loyalty.

  “The agonies of today are the jests of tomorrow,” said Morti. “Only by indifference and humor can we defeat the gods.”

  She hesitated, watching them keenly. “Have you heard, sirs, that I put the High Priestess to death?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” replied Everus quietly.

  “And you are not horrified?”

  Morti took her hand. “Nay, Majesty. What horrifies us is the treachery that made such an act necessary.”

  Salustra’s eyes dimmed. “I have but one thing further to say to you, sirs. It is dangerous to love me and to be my friend. Attempt to see me no more. The Empress of Atlantis is dead.”

  After dismissing them she turned to Brittulia, who was again weeping. “Thy work is done, Brittulia,” she said. “The virtuous always find consolation for their virtue when the unvirtuous are brought to ruin.”

  Brittulia knelt and tearfully kissed the hem of Salustra’s garments. “Majesty,” she said, “grant me one prayer.”

  “It is granted, Brittulia,” she said, laying her hand on the woman’s head.

  “Then, Majesty, permit me to remain with thee. I came to care for a slip of a girl but learned to care for thee instead. Thou hast more of virtue in thee than any virgin.”

  The Empress raised Brittulia to her feet and kissed the pale forehead. “Do not shame me with thy virtue,” she said. “I have already borne more than the unvirtuous can stand. Find Tyrhia for me.”

  Brittulia did not wince as usual at the Empress’ touch. “Thou still hast enemies, Majesty, the Senator Divona, for one.”

  She laughed hollowly. “What mischief, pray, can Divona and his ilk do me now? In any event, he is on the good Creto’s list, though I am sure his new master would otherwise make short work of him. A traitor is much like a man who cheats on his wife; he can be counted upon to repeat his duplicity with his new partner. The habit remains, only the names change.”

  33

  Signar had proclaimed officially that Salustra was not responsible for Jupia’s death. The High Priestess, he explained, had been slain in madness by the young Prefect, Creto, who would pay with his life for the unspeakable crime.

  Divona, the Senator, sought the Emperor’s protection. The Emperor listened coldly as the Senator referred to past favors.

  “Salustra is helpless now,” he said. “She cannot harm thee.”

  Divona shook his head. “She is an evil woman, Sire. Not until she is dead shall I feel safe.”

  “Then,” said Signar, “thou shalt not feel safe for some time.” He looked at the Senator cynically, “And was it not thou, Divona, who didst once ask for Salustra as thy reward for thy betrayal of her?”

  “I have changed my mind,” the Senator stammered. “I would as soon have a hungry tigress in my bed.”

  Signar regarded him scornfully. “Go whilst thou can,” he said.

  Divona blanched and slunk out of the room.

  There was no place in Lamora he could hide. It did not take Creto long to find him. The cynical Senator, devoted to a life of deviousness, found that the last to respect a traitor is he who employs him.

  “Wouldst thou kill me,” he said to the simple Creto, “when I can make thee a rich man with everything thou ever dreamt of, great estates, slaves, women to do thy bidding?”

  Creto could not forgo a triumphant moment. “How canst thou help me, traitor, when thou canst not help thyself?”

  And with this he plunged his sword deep into the bowels of a man consumed by his own hatred.

  The Empress had impatiently awaited Creto’s return. One look, as he strode in, was all she needed to know.

  “Had this deed been done long ago, Creto, Atlantis might not be helpless today.”

  The Prefect knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. “What more, Majesty, before I die?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I would gladly trade Signar my life for thine.”

  “Thou hast little room for sentiment, Majesty,” the man of action reminded her.

  “Thou must still fetch my sister. I have one more duty to perform.” She reflected a moment. “Take a guard to Brittulia’s house. The little fool may well be hidden there, while Brittulia seeks her in the Palace.”

  The Prefect hesitated, and a look of misgiving came to his eye.

  “What is it, Creto?” she demanded.

  “I pray, Majesty, that my last act is an honorable one.”

  Salustra’s face was illuminated by a quick smile. “Fear not, I intend this foolish girl no harm. The vengeance I consider is of another sort.”

  No sooner had he clanked out of the room than Brittulia arrived with a message from the poet Erato, pleading for an audience.

  “I will see him in the garden in an hour,” said the Empress agreeably, much to Brittulia’s surprise. “Now tell me, what hast thou done with the Princess Tyrhia?”

  Brittulia’s face was full of contrition. “She has disappeared, Majesty, as from the face of the earth, perhaps fearing that Signar may exercise his claim on her.”

  “She is indeed a fool,” said the Empress. “She reminds me more of Lahia, her mother, each day. Signar knows not, nor cares, whether she is alive, and never intended to marry her. It was but a ploy on his part.” She paused a moment. “Now make haste, Brittulia, to thy own home and meet Creto there.” With shining eyes, the virgin Brittulia bent and kissed her hand. Salustra gazed at her pityingly. “Go now,” she said kindly. “Thou poor thing.”

  The hour was fast approaching when Salustra would lose her borrowed authority. She sat calmly, reviewing in her mind without regret the recent flow of events. She cared not for astrologers and their predictions but she could not view the gray sky, smell the sickening atmosphere, or contemplate the cessation of electrical energy without considering these as fateful steps toward a more sinister drama yet to be revealed.

  “Signar’s coming,” she told Mahius, who had just entered, “is another spoke in Atlantis’ ruin, brought on, as those bearded fanatics have warned, by her own lack of moral purpose. What reason is there for Atlantis to exist? It has seen and done everything noble, everything rotten and degraded, until it has become a sink of iniquity. Its people would rather be fed by a paternalistic government than work, and prefer dissipation to contribution. They are not worth saving, and this the gods must surely know as they shake the earth.”

  Mahius permitted himself a smile. “Signar’s reckless use of
the atom-splitter has, I am sure, contributed to the recent behavior of the elements.”

  She thought for a moment. “We are all instruments of an inscrutable destiny and it suited the gods for Signar to do their work with the aid of Divona and his friends.” Her teeth came together. She was the Empress again. “But Divona, like Jupia, will trouble his countrymen no longer.”

  The old man shrugged indifferently. “Small matter, Majesty, if thy forebodings are correct.”

  She gave her minister a shrewd glance. “You would like that, old man, wouldn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Only for myself, Majesty. Let others who have not tired of life’s dreariness grow as weary of this meaningless pastime as I.”

  “Thou hast served too severely, Mahius.”

  “Say not so, Majesty. In all my years with thy father and thyself I hold but one grievance.”

  “And what is that, old man?”

  “That thy august father gave me the rejuvenation chamber.”

  She looked at his bleary eyes and shriveled skin, at the bent figure that could no longer stand erect, and said curiously, “Wouldst not thou like it better, old man, to have the face and form of a Signar or Erato?”

  “Nay, Majesty, for when I gaze into a mirror and see that wrinkled prune gaping back, I know that death cannot be far off.”

  “Hast thou had such a hard life then, old man?”

  He shook his head. “No, Majesty, I did enjoy everything I found in season. But once the mind has grappled with a problem, it has no more incentive for going over the same ground, knowing from experience what the outcome must be.”

  “By thy definition, then, I too am ready for this surcease thou speakest of.”

  “Not so, Majesty, thou art disenchanted presently by the frailties of others and self-disappointments, but thou art still young and wilt get over these obstacles.”

  “And so when, old man, do we become too old to live?”

  “When we are no longer enthusiastic at the promise of what lurks around the corner. Then, Majesty, we are ready for Drulla.”

  “I am too old then.” She sighed.

  “Not so. Thou hast never married, borne a child, known the love of a man of thy own stature—so how canst thou have finished with this experience?”

  “There is none to love who loves me,” she said wistfully.

  He gave her a look of infinite insight, born of two lifetimes of examining the underlying motivations of man. “Majesty, in serving thy father, I discovered one cannot count on what a man says or even what he does; it is by knowing what he wants that we know his nature. And so I ask myself what is it that thou truly wantest.”

  “And what dost thou see, old man?”

  “I see thee yearning for a mate, an equal, but telling thyself it is impossible.” He gave her a look of avuncular devotion. “And I tell thee, daughter of Lazar, thou art loved, as thou lovest.”

  She gave him a look of scorn. “Dost thou speak of the poet Erato, old man?”

  He looked at her indulgently. “I have known thee, Majesty, from the cradle, and I know the honest affection locked in thy heart. Let it out. Thou hast naught to lose.”

  She shook her head as if to free herself of some captive thought. “I would see Tyrhia disposed of before I leave, and then I am ready to meet the great Lazar.”

  He chuckled. “And why so concerned about this empty-headed daughter of a woman thy father detested?”

  She shrugged. “She is my sister, I see it at times in her temper and the tilt of her head.”

  “Be honest with thyself. Majesty. Thou wouldst not padlock the Emperor’s heart to an ignoble creature whose emotions come of her glands.”

  She saw no need to point out that the mismatch had been abandoned. “And who is it I love that loves me, old man?” she said.

  As Mahius was about to answer. Signar was announced. He was alone save for a slave. He looked about vigilantly, noting the Empress’ careworn expression and the resignation in the minister’s face.

  “Salustra, I am told thou hast not touched food for days and thy head hath not known its pillow. What madness is this?”

  Her manner suddenly changed. She said with a twinkling eye, “Sire, wouldst fatten me for the kill?”

  His eyes became stern. “Speak not nonsense. Thou art not Tyrhia but the Empress Salustra.”

  She shrugged in her frustration. “Thou must have spies even in my household?”

  “Not spies. Majesty, concerned servitors.”

  “Call them what thou likest. It is the same.”

  He made an impatient gesture and sent his slave to bring food for Salustra. With his own hands he arranged fruit, cheese, meat, bread and wine upon a table.

  T cannot eat,” she said simply.

  “Thou canst try,” he said. He poured wine into a gilded goblet and extended it to her.

  “I swear to thee that it is not poisoned,” he said with amusement.

  He had an hypnotic effect on her. She took the wine and drank it. A faint color appeared on her cheek. She broke a piece of bread and brought it to her mouth but could not stomach it.

  “Come,” said Signar sharply. “I gave thee credit for more intelligence.” He stood by her until she had partaken of the meat and cheese and fruit and had tasted more wine.

  “Why dost thou desire to keep me alive, my lord?” she asked. “I am of no use to thee.”

  He fixed his eyes upon her. “Why didst thou spare me that night, Salustra?”

  “Who knows?” She shrugged. “Perhaps I did not think thee worth the killing. Perhaps I desired thee to live because thou didst amuse me. I cannot tell.”

  He took her hand smilingly. “Someday, thou wilt tell me thyself. And when thou dost I will tell thee why I desire thee to live.”

  He turned abruptly to the silent Mahius. “What sayest thou, old man?”

  Mahius moved his frail shoulders slightly. “What is there to say, Sire?”

  34

  The sky was still behaving strangely. A pallid yellow light mirrored by the mountains turned the sea a greenish yellow. The air was heavy and humid, making breathing an effort. Once the earth trembled and a crash like thunder came from the sea.

  Salustra, moving slowly to the gardens, was bathed in a yellowish light. At the bottom of the marble stairway stood an agitated Erato with outstretched hands.

  Siton and two soldiers, who had followed the Empress, watched with interest. They could not hear the conversation but saw the young poet kneel and kiss her hands with adoration. Not waiting for further developments, Siton went immediately to Signar and reported what he had seen.

  Signar’s face became like a cloud. He buckled on his sword, usually worn only on ceremonial occasions, and without a word hurried to the garden in time to see Salustra’s white robes disappear into a glade. He followed closely, as he had once before, and saw Salustra seat herself on a marble bench. Erato, at her feet, alternately kissed her hands and pressed them to his face. Their voices, though low, carried clearly in the breathless quiet.

  “Nay, it is the end,” Salustra was saying sadly. “What he intends to do with me, I do not know, nor do I care.”

  “Come with me to Dimtri,” pleaded Erato once more. “Let us pray to him for this permission.” Again and again in an ecstasy of desire he kissed her hands.

  “Thou art kissing the hands dipped in a priest’s blood, Erato,” she said.

  “Were they thrice dipped in such blood they would not forfeit my love,” he answered staunchly.

  As she remained silent, Erato leaned his cheek against her knee and frowned. “I tried to warn thee of treachery, beloved. But thou wouldst not see me.”

  “A warning would not have helped me,” she replied distantly.

  He hesitated, looking at her uncertainly. “Salustra,” said he finally, “tell me if it is true, as some say, that Signar loves thee.”

  Salustra looked at him incredulously. “Gods!” she cried. “What things will these fools say next?
Signar hates me. He is preserving me for future humiliations.”

  Erato studied her with a lover’s penetrating eye. “But thou dost love him, Salustra,” he said quietly.

  She leaned her chin in her hand and said nothing.

  Erato sighed. “I suspected it when last I saw thee. And how could he but love thee?”

  Salustra shook her head fiercely. “I know not whether I love or hate him; it is confusing.”

  “Oh gods!” groaned Erato. “If I could but fly with thee to some distant place. Even if we were caught, death would be better than this agony.”

  She gave him a pitying glance. “Were we caught thou alone wouldst suffer. I forbid thee to speak of it further.”

  “Thou wilt not consider it because thou dost love him!” cried the young man bitterly. He took her in his arms and kissed her bare shoulders and throat.

  Signar, in the shadow of the trees, bit his lip till it bled.

  Salustra gently disengaged herself from Erato’s embrace. ‘Thou art still a poet with a poet’s ardor, Erato,” she said with some amusement.

  “And thou, Salustra, what art thou?”

  “Not even an Empress.” She shrugged ironically.

  In his impotence Erato began to beat his head with his fists. “His next conquest,” he cried, “will be of the little helpless kingdoms whose integrity thy father did guarantee. Conquest? Nay! He will merely take them. In Dimtri I shall wait for Signar. I shall face him man to man and we will see who is the better one!”

  As he spoke thus a shadow fell upon them. They looked up, startled, to see a formidable figure looming over them. Signar was smiling but there was a thinly veiled menace in his dark face. “I am here, Erato,” he said calmly. “What hast thou to say to me?”

  Erato was as pale as death. “What have I to say to thee?” he cried recklessly. “Nothing, except that thou art less than a man, less than a slave, less than the dust beneath Salustra’s feet!”

  Salustra turned to Signar urgently. “Lord,” she said in a low voice, “he is but a mad and foolish youth.”

  Thinking she thought only of Erato Signar shook her hand from his arm. He turned on the poet, and before the younger man could move he had seized him by the shoulder as a lion might seize a dog.