The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Effeminate fool!” he exclaimed scornfully. “I would be all those things you say were I to quarrel with thee!” He struck Erato’s cheek sharply with the flat of his hand.

  Erato recoiled, stunned, and then a wave of anger, long pent up, swept over him. His sword flashed and glittered in the yellow murk, and Signar swiftly drew his sword.

  A stifled cry broke from Salustra as she caught Signar’s arm. “My lord, thou didst promise to spare those that I love. It would be cowardly murder, unworthy of you.”

  Signar, pausing, glanced contemptuously at Erato. “Dost thou love him, Salustra?” he taunted.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Then take him! It is meet that the daughter of Lazar should have a singer of songs as a lover.”

  As Signar stood there, proud and disdainful in his regal splendor, the stripling poet, the contemptible Erato, struck him across the face with the flat of his sword. “Butcher like thee I never was!” he cried. “But a man unto himself, which thou art not!” The blood spurted from Signar’s cheek and flowed into his eye, partially blinding him. But he attacked fiercely, his sword raining blows like those of a great hammer. Before that battering assault Erato gave ground steadily. But suddenly, as he parried an overhead blow, he made a lucky thrust of his own on Signar’s blind side.

  Salustra let out a cry, for Erato had struck Signar a near-mortal wound in the breast and the blood was already staining the Emperor’s white tunic.

  Signar stepped back for a moment, more startled than dismayed. The smile vanished from his face. His jaw hardened and his one clear eye took on a pale gleam. The sight of the Emperor’s blood had renewed the poet’s dwindling strength. And then, as Signar rallied strongly, the tiring Erato took a direct thrust in the throat and began bleeding profusely. A torrent of blood seemed to spurt from the great vein, and Salustra with a sickening feeling sank upon the marble seat and watched with a sense of impending doom.

  The yellow air had become more brassy, more stifling. The swords of the men glittered with a golden light, their feet trampled the blood-stained grass, their breath came in agonized gasps. Once the ground under them trembled and a mighty roar from the sea disturbed the air. But these things they did not feel or hear.

  Signar was bleeding from several small wounds on his arms and a thin red rivulet was running from his cheek. Erato was growing rapidly weaker. He had only that one wound in his throat, but it was fast draining his strength away. He stumbled, fell backward; Signar’s sword flew up, caught Erato’s weapon, tore it loose from his hand and sent it spinning into the air. Salustra rose, and as she did so, Signar in the fury of fighting prepared to drive his sword into the breast of the defenseless man.

  But a slim wraith of a figure, appearing as out of nowhere, suddenly threw her body between the two men, falling on her knees before the Emperor.

  “If thou hast any love for the house of Lazar spare this man, whom I love more than life.”

  Signar’s sword paused, then dropped to his side.

  In a voice weak from his own loss of blood, Signar managed to say with a faint smile, “I am pleased that this house is capable of love, though it be wasted on a poet.”

  Tyrhia had just arrived with Creto and Brittulia in response to Salustra’s summons, and now with a cry of anguished relief she threw her arms around the half-swooning Erato. Tenderly she kissed the blood from his lips.

  Erato smiled faintly, his eyes closed, and then very slowly his body crumpled and he fell face forward upon the bloody lawn.

  Tyrhia knelt beside him and drew him into her arms. With his head pillowed upon her breast, and his blood staining her white garments, she looked up at Signar, who stood in silence, the bloody sword still poised in his hand.

  At this moment the Palace Guard, alarmed by Tyrhia’s outcry, came flying. Signar pointed to the Princess and the man in her arms. “If he lives,” he said weakly, “spare him. As for myself …”

  He staggered and would have fallen if Siton had not caught him in his arms. They carried the two men back to the Palace, to Salustra’s own apartments.

  The imperial physician, Cino, examined the Emperor first and shook his head gravely. “A thread closer to the heart and death would have resulted immediately,” he said. “As it is, recovery is uncertain.”

  Moving then to the unconscious Erato, he could only shrug helplessly. “It is with the gods.”

  In a frenzy of grief, the Princess Tyrhia advanced on her sister. “It is thy fault,” she cried. “Signar slew him for love of thee.”

  Salustra sat as if in a dream. “He is not dead yet,” she whispered. “Have hope.”

  She beckoned to the weeping Brittulia. “Tell this foolish maid that it was my wish to bring Erato and herself together, and for that reason I summoned them to my garden.”

  Tyrhia clinging to the poet, as if by her own will she would keep him alive, would not be consoled. “If he dies, my sister, it is thy doing.”

  Salustra looked at the clock on the wall. The twenty-four hours of authority given her by the Emperor had terminated. With a leaden heart she turned to Mahius, present as always in time of need.

  “I want reports on the hour on his condition.”

  “Whose condition, Majesty?”

  “Signar’s.” She stared blankly ahead.

  A curtain of gloom settled over the Palace. Beyond the Palace moat, a mighty crowd gathered, silent, sullen, looking fearfully to the sky. The yellow haze of day had faded but the night sky was a smoldering orange flame. An unearthly light lay upon the uneasy sea, the restless water billowing like a moving flame. Even the shadowy mountains were slashed at intervals as though rivers of fire were running down them.

  Salustra had no sleep that night. With her sister she sat by the dying poet’s couch, marveling at the serenity of the chalklike features, and yet her mind, perversely, was on another man.

  Meanwhile, the bright hue of the sky deepened and the sea became turbulent beyond measure. Geologists, astronomers and oceanographers whispered fearfully together and watched the instruments that registered the tremblings of the ocean floor.

  A hurricane wind sprang from the sea, and with it the heavens seemed to open. A solid mass of water fell upon the earth and the sea became a howling demon.

  At the height of this tempest Erato’s eyes opened and lighted on Tyrhia, whom in his stupor he mistook for Salustra. Tyrhia bent over him and kissed his cold, damp brow. His hand moved feebly and she took it in her own. Death was upon him and he struggled against it that he might speak once more to the woman he loved. His last whisper rattled in his throat.

  “I love thee, but not as a poet.” He sighed and smiled drowsily. “If the gods will, I will soon be a philosopher.” With that, he died.

  A saddened Salustra looked at her sister. “It is of thee he spoke,” she said.

  35

  The rain continued with unabated fury, as though the floor of the heavens had opened, for twenty-four hours. Few dared venture beyond their threshold, and all business was suspended. Through the wide, deserted streets and canals of Lamora rushed the waters, swirling about the ancient statues and pillars and carrying everything before them. The earth crumbled, foundations of buildings were undermined and they shook precariously. Through the torrential uproar, above the screaming of the wind, beyond the roaring of the swelling waves, could be heard the dull thud of pillars and walls crashing before the flood. The mountains seemed to dissolve into black rivers, which descended upon the stricken city. Earth and heaven and sea were one churning vortex that seemed to gobble up anything that was floatable. Occasionally, the earth rumbled ominously as if in protest against all this indignity.

  For days the storm raged, seeming to gain momentum. The inhabitants of the section bordering the shore retreated as the water began to rise through the lower streets, floating away their houses. Upon the broiling surface floated refuse of all description. The sewers spewed their contents into the streets and here and there a dead body swirled by.
The orange of the sky had faded and a purple glow seemed to have fallen like a mantle over the face of the earth. But there was no end to the ominous rumbling, which seemed to come from the earth and sea and sky simultaneously. At times it seemed that invisible chariots were rolling overhead; again, as though a great army were rushing in from the sea on giant horses. It was as if the very core of the earth were crumbling and a precariously thin shell floating on top was about to splinter into some bottomless abyss beneath the raging sea.

  The scientists were understandably filled with astonishment, even as they recalled the recent prophecies of destruction. “If you were not to think me mad, sirs,” said one sage to his colleagues, “I would declare that the sea was rushing in under the land into vast subterranean caverns, the walls of these great caverns are being battered, and this unprecedented pressure is causing this steady rumble.”

  “In that event,” said another, “it is only a matter of time until the solid bedrock of the earth crumbles and the crust collapses.”

  Meanwhile, the public agitation grew, as delayed reports began to come in from other provinces. Widespread death, destruction and desolation were reported. Thousands were losing their lives, and untold throngs were rushing eastward toward higher land before the surging waters. The inhabitants of whole cities were on the move. But where could they go? The entire earth seemed to be dissolving into water. By word of mouth rumors swept through the inundated world. Some said that Althrustri was still safe, protected by its own frosty climate. Others turned hopefully to the west. Mass migrations from Atlantis’ central and southern provinces began to the north and west despite the continuous downpour.

  And then, after seven days, the storm seemed to subside.

  The wind dropped, the sky lightened, the rain ceased abruptly. And in a sky of azure blue the sun shone with pale radiance upon a half-drowned world. The air was cold and the sea rolled in great waves, crashing with the clap of thunder upon the battered shore.

  Despite the persistence of the subterranean rumbling, men began to breathe more easily. All over Atlantis millions made their way to the temples, there to pray for their deliverance. They stood, in many instances, knee-deep in stinking water, shivering, cold, but grateful that the gods had apparently spared the world. Millions were homeless. Nobody knew how many dead there were.

  The priests began to whisper among the people. This calamity had not fallen upon the land as impersonally as the impious scientists insisted. Shifting strata indeed! Lies! Tidal waves—folly! Seaquakes—absurdity! The gods were enraged. Why did they assault the earth? Because the people of Atlantis allowed an evil and blasphemous woman to flourish in their midst.

  The priests did not forget their archenemy now that the earth seemed secure again. Throughout the shivering capital the fearful and resentful began to mutter, egged on by their religious mentors.

  “Hear the angry warnings of the gods,” said the priests of the continuing subterranean rumbles. “They have temporarily abated their wrath. They are giving the people of Atlantis one final chance to redeem themselves. And they will be pacified only by the death of this bloody murderess.”

  The priests realized that a majority, unorganized, is helpless against an organized minority. They summoned the people to the temples and in impassioned voices demanded the trial of Salustra by the Senate on murder charges.

  At first, the people fell into uneasy silence, disconcerted by the thought of responsible action. The priests were quick to sense the indecision of the people, and with their customary craft they seized upon a new celestial phenomenon as a retaliatory gesture of the gods.

  The sun, now clearly seen, had assumed a reddish tint and was surrounded by a circle of scarlet which seemed to flame and flicker. The people, fearing another deluge or worse, surged through the streets to the Senate Chamber and there demanded of the Senate that it bring Salustra to justice at once.

  With the wounded Signar still in coma, the Senate Guard, supported by the Senate, were ordered to arrest and detain the Empress. Led by an exultant Gatus, avenging his ill-starred brother-in-law, Lustri, they made their way to the imperial Palace, followed by a shouting multitude. They were like ravenous wolves ready to pounce on their prey once they were assured no risk of retaliation. And in their abdicated monarch, indifferent to her own welfare, the craven mob had their perfect quarry.

  36

  For several days Signar had lain close to death. His chamber was heavily guarded, and slaves moved about on velvet feet. The physician Cino was in constant attendance.

  Siton and Ganto had remained with the Emperor, sitting by his couch through the nerve-racking days of the great storm. The crafty minister and the burly general, fanatically devoted to their Emperor, had kept their vigil without more than occasional catnaps. Once, during a lucid interval, Signar opened his eyes, fixed them on Ganto, and said faintly, “Protect Salustra as thou wouldst me.”

  Signar then lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “It is strange, the power this murderess hath over him,” whispered Siton as he watched his slumbering master.

  Ganto looked up admonishingly and touched his lips. “We may yet be bending a knee to her. So govern thyself accordingly.”

  As Signar slowly regained his strength, Salustra’s life force appeared to be waning. She neither ate nor slept but spent the days in almost catatonic silence, mindless of both the elements and the demands for a Senate trial. It seemed to the grieving Brittulia and Mahius that Salustra had died and that her body, propelled by some mysterious inner power, maintained an independent life. Her eye did not brighten with recognition when it fell upon them, nor did she hear their voices. She sat for hours in her ivory chair, her unwinking eyes fixed on some vague spot in space.

  Once Siton softly entered and approached the Empress. She frowned, as though trying to distinguish his words. Then her eyes stared off once again.

  “They say that Signar is recovering,” whispered Mahius to the visiting Siton.

  Before the general could answer Salustra looked up alertly. “Signar,” she murmured. “Hath he died yet?”

  They assured her that he still lived. But she did not seem to hear.

  Confident that Signar would not recover, the Senate Guard made its way into the Palace as the mob swarmed in the gardens. Overhead, the skies were darkening again and anxious eyes turned heavenward. Trees stood limp, still dripping water; vegetation had disappeared. One disaster seemed to lead into another, and the mob, egged on by its leaders, had happily found a scapegoat. Halfway to Salustra’s apartments, Signar’s elite Guard, headed by Siton, routinely halted the Senate force. A parley ensued. Siton listened to the Senate’s declaration of arrest. He pretended to deliberate with Ganto, but used this only as a delaying tactic, saying in an aside, “We must save her. Otherwise, we would never dare face the Emperor again.”

  Gatus stepped forward boldly. “My lords,” he said, “the power of the Atlantis Senate supersedes that of the sovereign. This is a legal arrest and I would suggest that none detain us.” He made a significant gesture toward the angry mob below.

  Still stalling for time, Siton and Ganto stood aside before a superior force, allowing the Senate Guard to continue on their mission as if it were no great concern of theirs.

  Gatus entered Salustra’s chamber first. Alarmed at the noise, Brittulia and Mahius had risen and were standing protectively before the Empress. Gatus held a roll of parchment in his hand. “We have come for Salustra,” he said, stepping farther into the chamber.

  “On what charges?” demanded the minister.

  “On the charges of murder and treason.”

  Mahius would have spoken again but at that moment the Empress rose. She looked first at Gatus and then at the soldiers behind him. Her dull eyes glittered. Salustra was herself again. The mention of treason had been enough to wake her.

  “Thou hast come to arrest me?” she asked calmly.

  Gatus made a deep obeisance.

  “Let me see the war
rant,” she said. Almost automatically he surrendered it. As she read a faint smile touched her lips. With the utmost composure she tore the parchment and let the fragments drift to her feet. “On those spurious charges,” she said calmly, “I will gladly be executed.” She gathered her robes about her. “I am ready.”

  Stepping forward, Mahius interceded in his mistress’ behalf, “Thou hast not the seal of the Emperor to the warrant,” he said. “I demand that thou dost obtain such a seal.”

  Thinking of Signar as a dying man, Gatus smiled scornfully. “The power of the Senate supersedes the power of the throne. Besides,” he said, gesturing toward the garden, “the people demand her imminent trial and execution.”

  He motioned to the soldiers. They came forward to seize Salustra, but Brittulia flung herself before her mistress, her own bosom shielding the Empress. At a nod from Gatus a soldier drew his sword and buried it in Brittulia’s breast. She slumped to the floor in a pool of blood, moaning only, “I die because I sinned in my heart. May the gods forgive me.” Stung out of his lethargy, Mahius seized the sword in his hands and attempted feebly to wrest it from the soldier. Another guard, excited by the struggle, drove his sword into the old man’s side and he, too, crumpled at Salustra’s feet.

  All this had happened so swiftly that Salustra had had no opportunity to move. Her white robes were splattered with the blood of those who had loved her, and before she could utter a word of protest the soldiers had seized her.

  When Salustra was brought before the Palace a mighty roar rose from the bloodthirsty multitude. Clenched hands were raised and voices shouted oaths and imprecations. The soldiers had difficulty keeping back the mob surging against their lines.

  Salustra stood in silence. Her tall figure, in its bloodstained robes, seemed to shine with a snowy luster; her unbound hair fell over her shoulders. Her face was turned with majestic indifference upon those who had only recently acclaimed her.