The Romance of Atlantis (26 page)

“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.

Salustra gave him a lackluster look. “Tell me about Althrustri, my lord,” she said softly.

He shrugged carelessly. “My country,” he said, “is not like Atlantis. It is a fierce land, the northern sections icebound and under snow and heavily timbered. As thou dost know, only the eastern and southern borders are settled. The rest is virgin, with vast natural resources. But I have visions of great cities where only wilderness now flourishes. My people are strong and adventurous and need only a little encouragement to expand their flair for commerce.”

His candor surprised her. “Where dost thou expect to obtain such encouragement?” she asked.

Signar played with the stem of his goblet. “The gods may be kind.”

“Thou dost mean thou wilt force the gods to be kind.”

Their eyes held each other for a long moment. Then Salustra glanced aside and a shadow fell over her features again.

He laid his fingers over hers. “Who can demand that another be kind?” he said softly.

She withdrew her hand, lifted her goblet, and held it high in her hand. The wine cast a red glow over her pallid profile. “Let us drink to our friendship, Sire!”

Still gazing upon her, he raised his glass, touched it to his lips, then drew back his head as if to drink, and paused.

“Wait!” she commanded.

He put down the goblet and looked at her with surprise.

“What aileth thee, Salustra?” he asked. “Shall we not drink to our friendship?”

“Let us talk first.” she said.

He lifted his goblet again, his eyes dancing with a reckless mirth. “Let us drink to futility!” he cried. He again touched the goblet to his lips, as though to drink.

“Wait!” again cried Salustra, half rising. He stared at her in feigned astonishment, returning the goblet to the table. She sank back into her seat, her face ashen. “A feeble toast!” she said. “Hast thou no better?”

He shrugged. “What better? The gods, in a sportive humor, created us, as a writer of plays creates a drama, for their own amusement.”

As he spoke, Signar just barely heard the sound for which he had waited, muffled footsteps behind the crimson curtains.

He lifted his goblet again and regarded the wine critically. “In this,” he said lightly, “we have our antidote. Drowned in wine, we can even mock the gods and curse them gaily.” Again he touched the brim to his lips, watching the Empress closely.

“Wait, my lord!” she cried a third time, her hand outstretched in command. At that moment, the heavens were divided as though by a colossal sword, and a great peal of thunder and lightning shook the earth. The lightning seemed to find a focus in Salustra, every gem upon her body shining like a star. She seemed oblivious of this new tremor.

“I wish to talk to thee,” she said in a strained voice. “Let us not drink yet.” She fell back into her seat and covered her face with her hands for a moment, then lifted her head with a bitter smile. “I have discovered something, Sire. I am a coward. I lack courage and resolution. In other words, I am a woman.”

She looked up wildly, laughing now, her face flushed. “My lord!” she cried. “Let us drink! But do thou give me thy wine. See, I have touched my goblet with my lips. Drink! It is a little custom in Atlantis, for friends to exchange in this manner.” She was leaning across the table, still convulsed with laughter, her goblet extended in her hand. Grimly he gave her his goblet, and took her own goblet. She lifted his goblet to the light. Her eyes were sparking, her teeth gleaming between her laughing lips. “To thee, my lord!” she cried. “To Atlantis, which I now betray, and to the infernal gods!”

She put the glass to her lips, drew back her head, and would have finished it in one gulp had not the Emperor suddenly reached forward and dashed the cup from her lips. The wine splattered over her dress. Simultaneously, the earth shuddered under the clattering crash of thunder, and the leaden skies turned into a flaming orange ball.

After that last earthshaking crash they sat together in stunned silence. The Empress looked down at her stained robe, and mutely shook the drops from her hands.

“Why didst thou desire to die, Salustra?” he asked softly. “And why didst thou spare me?”

She looked at the shattered goblet at her feet and her head dropped.

“Tell me why thou didst spare me, Salustra,” he repeated gently. “And why didst thou intend to die in my stead?”

Her eyes were closed, as though she hoped to close off reality for a moment.

His voice was compassionate. “Didst thou wish to die because thou didst think thou hadst betrayed Atlantis? Nay, think not so, Salustra. I knew the wine was poisoned before I came to thee. I would not have swallowed it. So condemn not thy cowardice.”

She lifted her head. “Thou didst know the wine was poisoned?” she said dully.

“Yes, I was warned.”

She pushed aside the damp curls that clung to her forehead. “Who told thee?” she asked.

“Thy sister, Tyrhia,” he said in a low voice. “She was told so by another.”

“My sweet little Tyrhia,” she said whimsically.

“Not so sweet,” he said dryly.

“I have violated the great law of hospitality, Sire,” she said. “I have sought thy death.”

She held out her hand and he looked away. “What!” she exclaimed. “Thou wilt not take my hand? Well, thou art no hypocrite.” In a sudden shift of mood, her voice was almost gay now. “But thou dost not ask if I will attempt thy death again, for thou art in my power, thou must remember!”

He laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Nay, it is thou who art in my power, Salustra.”

He rose and walked swiftly to the crimson curtains, and flung them aside. In the hall outside stood her own imperial Guard. At their head was a smiling Siton.

Salustra didn’t flinch for a moment. With a calm stride she moved toward the soldiers. A few paces from the guards, she halted. Under her piercing scrutiny the soldiers shifted uneasily. “So,” she said humorously, “you, too, soldiers of Lazar!”

A murmur rose from the men, but they did not meet her gaze.

Smiling lightly, Salustra touched the foremost soldier on his asbestos breast. “Thou didst fight beside my father, Uslio,” she said gently. “Thou wert wounded, fiercely beset. He stood over thy body, bleeding from many wounds, and saved thee, though he well nigh died himself.” She paused. “He loved thee as did I.”

The soldier’s eyes showed his shame.

Salustra turned to another of the mailed giants. “And thou, Lio,” she said in that same gentle voice. “My father took thee from slavery whilst thou wert a child. Thou didst wash his feet with grateful tears.”

The soldier groaned and turned aside. Siton glanced uneasily, gripping his sword. Signar shook his head with a frown.

Salustra’s smiling eyes moved over the rest of the men, almost tenderly. “My father gave you to me,” she said. “All of you swore to serve me to the death.” She shrugged. “Poor flesh!” she said sadly. “I do not blame you. You were bought by one stronger than I and I commend your discretion.”

She turned to Signar with a mocking gesture. “Take them, my lord. May they serve thee better than they served me. What was it thou didst say of futility?” She moved back to the table, standing there, smiling, as though at some secret jest. “I am to understand that all of Atlantis hath deserted to thee, Signar?”

He inclined his head without speaking. She looked at him with ostensible admiration. “My only shame,” she said, “is that I must have appeared a blind and stupid fool in thy eyes.”

“Nay!” he exclaimed. “I know thee for what thou art.”

“And Creto?” she asked. ‘What of my poor Prefect?”

“Do with him what thou wilt. I will free him at thy word.”

“And Mahius?”

“He, too, is spared. He loved thee. That is sufficient.”

“And Erato?” she murmured.

A frown darkened Signar’s brow. Then he shrugged. “He is thine, Salustra,” he said in a low voice.

“And Tyrhia?”

He smiled grimly. “As thou must know, I was only playing thy game. She is free to love whom she wilt.”

“Or hate whom she wilt,” said Salustra bleakly. She sighed. “I have no other friends,” she added half-aloud.

He inclined his head. “Thou didst give thy all to thy people and they have betrayed thee. I have learnt a timely lesson.”

She shrugged. “There is neither right nor wrong; there are only strength and weakness,” she said indifferently. “And may I ask, Sire, what is thy intention for Atlantis?”

“It will be annexed to Althrustri,” he answered eagerly. “I intend no reprisals. Atlantis will gain. She will become stronger, more vigorous, imbued with new life and new hope and strength by the infusion of the young blood of Althrustri.”

She was silent, gazing at the sky. The orange glow had disappeared, but the thunder grumbled sporadically in the distance.

“Thou hast asked for others, Salustra,” said Signar gently. “Thou hast not asked what I intend to do with thee.”

“I?” she asked. “Thou wilt, of course, have me executed.”

When he made no answer an expression of alarm crossed her features. She laid a trembling hand on his arm. “My lord,” she said tremulously, “take everything, but grant me death; let me die quickly, without humiliation.”

“I do not wish thee to die, Salustra. I have other uses for thee.” His face was stern and unyielding. “Moreover, I require a solemn oath that thou wilt not attempt to take thy life. And I will hold Creto, Mahius and Erato hostages to that vow. If thou dost die by thy own hand, these three will follow thee by no easy road. Dost thou understand, Salustra? If thou diest, these who love thee die also.”

“My lord, of what use can I be to thee? Art thou mean enough to hold me up to the scorn of a world I have ever despised?”

“I desire not thy humiliation, lady. Thou givest thyself little credit by such a thought. Wouldst thou have treated me so if thou hadst conquered me? Nay, I will not insist upon an answer! But come, thy promise.”

“My promise?” she murmured. “Take it. It is thine.”

“And now, think not that I am ungenerous. Mahius will spend his days in comfort and seclusion. I shall try to induce that foolish Creto to join me. Erato shall be returned to his cousin, the King of Dimtri. All those for whom thou hast a weakness shall retain their honor and dignity.”

She lifted her burning eyes to his, “Sire, thou hast denied me the one thing I desire. But grant me one boon. Give me tomorrow with all my old power. That is all I ask.”

He hesitated and looked beyond her. The sky had lightened. A faint rosy light appeared in the gloom. It seemed a good omen.

“Take it. It is thine.”

31

The Empress Salustra’s abdication was a simple affair. “It is apparently the will of the people that we abdicate the throne of Atlantis and that the Emperor Signar be crowned in our stead, with the two mighty nations joined into one. We hope that the people will prosper under the new reign and will accord the Emperor their devoted allegiance, striving, with him, to create a new order worthy of Atlantis.”

The message bore the Empress’ seal.

The fickle public now began to question their own lack of support for Lazar’s cub. Women began to weep, men to give vent to noble sentiments. Lazar was emotionally remembered. But it was too late. Salustra, philosophically committed, cared nothing for the changing sentiment in her behalf. “To protest against the rise of Signar,” she told Mahius, “is like protesting against the rising of the sun. I have had my day. And now it is his.”