The Romance of Atlantis (28 page)

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.

“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.”