Mahius looked at her kindly. “Thou art so young to have reached so final a conclusion, Salustra. But when thou art older thou wilt no longer feel so keenly. Thou wilt accept life tranquilly, without fear and without hope. The small child and the old man are the wisest philosophers.”
Salustra shrugged. “We need no armor against life, no philosophy,” she said somewhat sullenly. Then she laughed shortly. “We need truth. But what is true and what is false? What is brave and what is cowardly? What is vice, and what virtue? All we know is that we are here, and that tomorrow we shall be gone. From whence we came, and whither we go, no man can tell. Like shadows we come, like shadows we go, and the familiar places know us no more. When man speaks of the gods, he babbles like a monkey at the moon.”
Mahius bowed and relapsed into silence. But his eyes were sad. Salustra began her pacing on the colonnade. She halted abruptly and spoke in her usual imperative manner. “Tomorrow the ambassadors of Althrustri speak confidentially with me. I already know their errand, though I did not let on before. They bring a suit from their Emperor, seeking my hand in marriage. If it would save Atlantis, I would accept, much as I shudder at the thought of contact with that barbarian. But it would not save her. He would be Emperor of both nations.”
Mahius looked at her in mute distress. She lifted her hand as though to prevent him from speaking. “He is thinking of his sons, yet unborn,” she went on. “He covets Atlantis for their heritage. Even the most ambitious men are mere tools in the grip of biological forces. And, indeed, I admire him for it. It is inevitable that the blood of Signar be in the veins of the man who will one day sit upon the throne of my country. I am content; I hold no grudge against him. The sun sets; tomorrow a new sun rises in the east. It is natural and inevitable, and who am I to quarrel with nature?”
Mahius was plainly puzzled by this new turn of events.
“I repeat, he desires Atlantis for his sons, as well as himself,” went on the Empress calmly. “They shall have it, but only when I am dead. While I live, Atlantis is mine. But how shall I prevent war that would wipe out our world? Simple, my friend! I shall give Signar my sister Tyrhia in marriage. Their oldest son shall inherit Atlantis, provided that I have Signals solemn oath that the two empires be not combined during my lifetime.”
She looked up and saw Mahius regarding her with narrowed eyes. She tapped him lightly on the arm. “Come, thou hast something to say, dear friend and teacher. Fear not. What is it?”
The minister spoke in a low but urgent voice. “I too, have my spies. They tell me that Signar desires one thing even above Atlantis.”
“And what may that be?”
He wet his lips, and then said simply, “Thee.”
Salustra’s face went rigid with indignation, then broke into a jeering smile. “Thou poor old man!” she exclaimed. “Thy senility is indeed upon thee! He desires me only because I am Empress of Atlantis, and through me he hopes to conquer painlessly. I, too, have my spies. They tell me how Signar makes jest of me, and they speak of the ribald stories he enjoys about me.” She shrugged. “I tell thee, dear old foolish friend, that he desires only Atlantis. And when he sees my innocent and virginal Tyrhia, he will be only too glad to take her.”
Mahius’ air of not being convinced irritated Salustra. “I have never seen him, but I loathe him! Althrustri is a fierce and backward land. And Signar is fit Emperor of it. But it is a virile land. I shall be glad that the son of Signar shall inherit Atlantis peacefully.” She leaned over the marble balustrade and her eyes grew soft for a moment.“My country!” she murmured. “My splendid and decaying heritage! I shall rest in my grave, secure in the knowledge that thy corruption is preserved, that thy incontinence shall continue.”
She sighed. “My father told me that when a nation reaches a certain stage of gilded rottenness it is afflicted with all the depraved appetites of a morally and mentally perverted man. And at that time it is feverish for new sensations. Thus, some look to an alien leader like Signar, others prattle of a freedom they label democracy. Bah! The very name democracy is a denial in terms. Men are never fundamentally democratic. Nature herself makes them unequal. A republic is the most autocratic form of government. One monarch is preferable to a multiple monarchy of rapacious men, who, having but a short time in office, rob and ravage with feverish dexterity and without scruple. Atlantis has reached the stage where she is beginning to think of a republic out of boredom. Loud is the expression of love for me, but let the wind blow strongly enough in the direction of republicanism, they would spill my blood with the same cheerfulness with which they now hail me. Signar is not as patient as I. He will give these democrats short shrift.”
Mahius began to speak gently, hoping to penetrate Salustra’s shell. “Didst thou say thou wilt never marry, Salustra?”
She shook her head impatiently. “There is no season for marriage even if I willed it. If I should marry a prince of Dimtri, Nahi, Madura, Antilla or Letus, my children would become the Emperors of Atlantis. And Signar would not endure that. He wants what he wants now. Besides, I have no desire to marry. Why should I?”
“And thou hast no desire for love, Majesty? Only in love do we approach the gods. Love explains all things, interprets all things, is the keystone of all things. Love is life. I would not have thee miss that!”
Salustra laughed with genuine enjoyment. She tapped the old man playfully. “Poor Mahius!” she exclaimed. “What hast thou now? A delicious slave girl from the Island of Lusi? And has thou found in her arms what thou hast not found in the arms of thy old wife? Go to! When a man speaks of love, he is not thinking of his lawful spouse!” Her laughter ceased suddenly and her lip curled. “Love is the greatest force in the world, so say the sentimentally ignorant. Nay, I say that hatred is omnipotent—hatred, the ruler of all destiny, vigorous, fiery, gratifying. Love is death; hatred is life. When a nation begins to drool of love, she is in her dotage. Love is parasitic; all hatred enterprising, ambitious. Hatred builds new empires. Love, by weakening the logic, destroys them. Hatred is the conquering warrior; love, the camp follower. If I could do so, I would raise a temple to hatred. When nations loudly prate of their love for each other, they are secretly sharpening their swords. When men and women speak together of love, they are merely attiring naked lust in becoming modesty.”
Mahius kept his eyes on the floor throughout this tirade, until Salustra finally began to speak of other things. “The day after tomorrow, the National Assembly meets,” said the Empress. “It will be a wearisome day. Those old Senators, quarrelsome and petty! They all have a personal ax to sharpen, and a private coffer to fill, and they talk of patriotism and a desire to serve the people. Why cannot they be honest?”
“If they were honest, they would not trust themselves,” said Mahius dryly.
“My father used to say: ‘Art thou honest? If thou dost answer yes, I will call thee a liar!’” She smiled. “If we were entirely honest, we would find life insupportable. We need a delicately colored mist to soften the hard and naked crags of truth.”
A laughing murmur was heard below in the gardens. Litters were arriving for the young guests. The two were suddenly aware that time had passed rapidly. Still Salustra lingered. She looked at the heavens. Mahius’ eyes followed hers. Even as they watched, an ominous cloud, shaped like an enormous hand with hooked fingers, approached the hazy moon. So like a human hand was the cloud that Salustra and Mahius were involuntarily startled. They watched, almost breathlessly. Slowly the cloud-hand lifted, reached upward; and before their astonished eyes, the fingers curled, the wrist twisted, and the fingers stretched like rapacious talons. A moment later it had clutched the pale outline of the moon, and the moon vanished completely behind its curtain of mist. A chilling breath of air caused them to shiver momentarily. A dark shadow, in the shape of an enormous hooked hand, passed over the city.
Salustra tried to smile, to force a gay word past her lips. But no sound came from them.
Silently, preoccupied wit
h their own dark thoughts, they went into the Palace. In the marble corridor stood her Prefect of the Guards, that handsome and vigorous young man who, it was rumored, had served the Empress well during the dark lonely hours. Abstracted, she favored him with the same glance she would a useful piece of furniture, and moved on with an absorbed air. She arrived in time to bid farewell to the youthful guests. Tyrhia was frankly weary, the white flowers looking wilted on her touseled head. Meanwhile, additional guests were already arriving, Senators, Nobles and others from the idle aristocracy of Lamora. Salustra bade her sister a perfunctory good-night and then looked for the young poet, Erato. As her eyes found his, Mahius again begged permission to retire, and Salustra carelessly gave her consent. There were fifty men already present, including some earlier guests and the young poet who had been especially bidden to remain.
Wreaths of red roses, fresh with the evening dew, were placed in fun upon the heads of the guests. Salustra’s shrewd eye traveled over each face. They all said something to her. Fat Senators, with lascivious mouths and puffy eyes, exchanged obscene quips and looked boldly about them. The semi-nude slaves had been replaced by a crew of totally nude nymphets of surpassing beauty, their fair hands appearing almost too delicate for their task of filling and refilling the goblets of shimmering wine. There were as many of these slim, rosy-skinned sirens as there were guests, and they blushed occasionally at the unmistakable attentions of these lecherous elders.
There was something forced about the festal mood, for there were none there, not even the plotting Senator Divona, who could lift themselves totally out of the depression that the stifling mist seemed to lay over the city. They had been flung into confusion by the sudden disruption of electrical facilities and were increasingly concerned by the dark forecasts of the astrologers.
But now all took their cue from the Empress. For though many secretly hated her, she was still the hub around which all revolved. They saw that she was apparently unconcerned, immersed in a new admirer, and they took heart. Salustra was very conscious of all this. By her command the poet Erato sat at the right hand of the Empress. At her other hand sat Pellanius, ambassador-in-chief to Althrustri. Erato’s hand trembled as he lifted his goblet to his lips, his eyes never leaving Salustra.
Salustra had thrown off her golden robe; she was now revealed to be almost nude, except for breast plates of delicate gold filigree and a scanty golden garment about her hips. Her body glistened like marble under the changing lights from an overhead crystal. Her headdress with its twelve points glowed radiantly. There was no nymphet in the room, however young and beautiful, whose face or form could rival the Empress! She was a perfect expression of seductive femininity, appearing suddenly unattainable in her regal splendor.
The air became heavy with perfume and the aroma of food and drink. The laughter of the guests became louder. Some men sprawled on divans, ogling the passing nymphets, their wreaths awry over sweating foreheads. Occasionally, a beautiful slave sprayed them with fragrant perfumes, which lent an additional heaviness to the humid air.
Salustra had, as yet, exchanged but few words with Erato, but she leaned toward him from time to time, and smiled to see how he quivered as her bare thigh brushed against his hand.
The Noble Gatus was speaking, his mouth twisted with humor, his eyes dancing. “Listen to this!” he shouted. “I vouch on my word of honor that it is true.”
Salustra laughed. “Art thou certain thou hast a word of honor, Gatus? Thou wert willing to sell thy province today, if I remember rightly.”
Gatus scowled, then quickly regained his gaiety. “I have heard this story from one in a position to know. It seems that Seneco, that old swindler of a jeweler, became much enamored of the beautiful young bride of a noble in Lamora.
She shall be nameless, of course. Her husband is very devoted, but somewhat abstracted at times. No! Ask me not who she is! It seems that one day she was in Seneco’s shop, and he displayed an entrancing diamond anklet for her delectation. She was immediately fascinated. She slipped it on a delicate ankle, and Seneco assured her that it was designed with such an ankle in view. At last, with a sigh, she confessed that she could not buy it; her husband had told her that she had sufficient jewels for any woman.”
A gray-haired man with his wreath dropped over one eye stood up drunkenly. “What cruelty!” exclaimed Pellanius. “Whisper the name of the lady to me, and I shall buy the anklet for her. Youth should be adorned with jewels.”
Pellanius sat down to shouts of silence and Gatus was urged to continue. “The poor girl was indeed grief-stricken,” Gatus went on, smiling. “She wept in Seneco’s arms, and allowed him to manually explore the supple softness of her body. At length he told her how tenderly he adored her. He importuned her to allow him to bring the anklet to her home the next day, when her husband was absent on business. The girl hesitated coyly. She murmured something about virtue and matronly chastity; Seneco convinced her that diamonds had greater permanence than chastity.”
There was another interruption. “Bah! No woman is worth a diamond,” said the Senator Divona, who had once aspired to the Empress and, having been rejected, never lost an opportunity to deride her sex in her presence. “A bit of crystal, a delicate turquoise, perhaps, but not a diamond. Women are too easy to come by.”
Salustra smiled indolently. She laid her hand negligently on Erato’s shoulder, and he kissed it solemnly. She brought her goblet to his lips, bade him drink, then drank herself. The young man shivered with delight. Salustra motioned for Gatus to get on with his story.
“Finally,” Gatus continued, “the young matron consented that old Seneco might visit her the next day. He came, full of love and wine, bearing the anklet. An hour later he left, minus the anklet, and some of his ardor.” He chuckled. “That night, the husband returned home. The lady had discreetly hidden the bauble. However, looking at her sharply, the husband asked if Seneco had visited her that afternoon and had left an anklet for her. She confessed the visit, full of terror, not knowing how he had guessed her secret. She would have thrown herself at his feet and begged for mercy but was paralyzed with fright. Not seeing this, however, the husband explained with smiles and caresses that he himself had bought the anklet for her the day before, and that Seneco had promised to deliver it to the lady in person today!”
The gale of laughter that ensued caused the overhead lamps to vibrate. The Empress joined in gaily, enjoying the story more than most because it confirmed her belief that treachery was a popular commodity. “These women!” shouted Pellanius. “But it is not often that we can trick them that way! I’ll wager the lady does not often wear the anklet in public.”
Other stories followed, becoming more ribald as the wine circulated. Some guests had captured the slave girls, and playfully held them prisoner on the silken divans, kissing them awkwardly as they twisted in their captors’ arms. Great laughter followed when a doughty young girl, resisting certain liberties, deliberately poured a goblet of wine over the old Senator Contani. The wine dripped over his sodden face, and he shook his head like an old boar to clear his glazed eyes.
“Spit him!” shouted Patios, the youngest Senator. “We shall then have pork in the Palace tomorrow!” The party progressed. A singer, a man of effeminate beauty, emerged from an alcove and began to sing an obscene lyric. When the singer retired to considerable applause, Patios stepped forward to take his place. But upon being drenched in turn with a bowl of wine, he retired with drunken dignity to a fountain in the center of the room. Amid shouts of laughter, he solemnly stepped into the pool, ardently embracing one of the marble statues.
“He thinks she is his wife,” remarked Divona in a scornful voice.
“The statue is more responsive than she,” muttered Noble Glarus aloud.
In the midst of this revelry, the Prefect of the Guard appeared suddenly at the side of the Empress. He held a roll of parchment in his hand and was apparently ill at ease. “I am sorry to disturb thy Majesty,” he said in an underto
ne. “But this was left with urgent supplications that it be delivered at once.”
With a frown, Salustra unrolled the paper. She gave a sharp exclamation. It was from the disgraced Lustri.
“When thou dost read this, illustrious Salustra, thy poor Lustri will be dead. When thou didst dismiss him from thee, thou didst dismiss him from life. I have chosen the wiser part; to live without thy smile is worse than death. Memory would be torment. I leave thee now. Perhaps thou wilt have one last thought of kindness for me.”
The hand that held the message was steady and strong. “Lustri is dead, the fool!” she exclaimed.
A pall suddenly fell over the gathering. The guests looked at each other uneasily, avoiding the Empress’ gaze.
Gatus, kinsman to Lustri, rose at last, his face white and his eyes flashing. “Thou wilt allow me to retire, Majesty?” he said, his voice trembling. “Lustri was my bride’s brother.”
The uneasiness deepened. Only Salustra appeared amused. She allowed Gatus to stand for several moments before she replied. “Go if thou likest,” she said carelessly. The others suddenly sobered, looked about uncertainly.
“Thou wilt permit him a public funeral?” said the Noble Glarus hesitantly.
She fixed Glarus with a frown. “Why should I deny him a public funeral? Dost think I fear the mob of Lamora? I prefer their open enmity to sly whispers that I ordered a private funeral because I feared them. Go to, Glarus!”
The chill that had fallen over the festivities lifted.
“At dawn, thou shalt whisper thy poems to me in secret,” murmured Salustra to Erato.
Lustri was already forgotten, and the malicious gossip continued.
“Has anyone seen the house Consilini is building for his mistress in the suburb of Conla?” demanded the Senator Sicilo. “It is a villa of extreme delicacy, and he is lavishing his fortune upon it. They say Galo is furnishing the statues, and Stanti the frescoes. The gardens are little gems of beauty. I asked him today why he lavished all that on one woman, and he replied that his wife objects to his maintaining his mistresses in the city, so to oblige her he is building the villa as temporary residence for his various loves. They say he is tired of Guhliana, and is looking for a likely successor. Brittulia perhaps.”
The Romance of Atlantis Page 7
