Salustra regarded her without emotion but with a mild sort of curiosity. She turned to the ubiquitous Mahius. “The chit loves someone in Lamora,” she said coldly.
Tyrhia stood as though stricken to stone.
“Whom dost thou love, Tyrhia?” asked Salustra in amusement.
Tyrhia continued to weep, her slight figure racked with sobs, her hands covering her face. Salustra waited, unmoved, indifferent. After a few moments, Tyrhia stopped sobbing and looked appealingly to her sister.
“Whom dost thou love?” Salustra repeated.
Tyrhia gulped. “He is worthy of me, Salustra,” she said. “He is of royal blood, cousin to the King of Dimtri. He would bring no dishonor upon me. He is Erato, the poet.”
Mahius, hitherto an uneasy bystander, gave vent to a muffled cry of horror. He looked at Salustra. The birthmark on her cheek had turned scarlet, but her mouth was a thin, colorless line.
Tyrhia shrank back in fear, her hands extended as though she would ward off a blow. She sank to her knees and knelt quaking before Salustra.
For moments absolute silence reigned in the chamber, then Mahius spoke earnestly. “Great Majesty,” he murmured, “have mercy upon this child, who, like thee, is a daughter of the great Lazar.”
Salustra made an impatient gesture. She laid her hand upon Tyrhia’s shoulder and shook her. “Cease thy quaking, little fool,” she said roughly. She seized the girl’s slender wrists. “Look at me! Hath that man spoken one word of love to thee?”
The girl’s hand fell upon her breast. “Not one word,” she cried brokenly. “He does not even know that I love him.”
Salustra flung the girl from her contemptuously, and Tyrhia lay where she fell, in a sobbing heap. “If I thought that he had tampered with the little idiot, I would have him drawn and quartered.” She began to pace the chamber floor. Mahius, gaunt in his crimson robes, waited in silence. At length, she stopped beside Tyrhia and touched her disdainfully with her foot. “Cease thy maudlin tears, Tyrhia.” she said imperiously. “What canst thou know of love, little virgin? And mark this. Tyrhia, if thou shouldst as much as look upon that man so that he may know of the delirium for him. I shall have him summarily removed. Dost thou understand me?”
The girl pushed herself to her knees. Her hair fell over her tearful face in a golden shower. She nodded her head weakly. After a moment, she rose, tears still streaming from her eyes. But as she turned her head, her eyes began to shine with a new determination.
7
Salustra still reclined upon her couch, though it was nearly noon. Deep shadows lay under her eyes, her face was drawn, her lips almost colorless in the remorseless light of day…She lifted her hand in languid acknowledgment of the High Priestess Jupia’s obeisance. Jupia was an extremely tall woman. She did not seem to possess the body of a woman, so straight and spare were the lines of her figure. She wore a headdress of crimson silk, which entirely concealed her gray hair and framed a gaunt face with expressionless steel-blue eyes. She held her hands concealed in the wide, gold-banded sleeves of her red robes. She was attended by two virgins in blue robes. The obeisance she gave the Empress had in it a contemptuous deference, as though her spirit protested the honor. Salustra listlessly giving permission, Jupia seated herself near the Empress’ couch, her virgin escort standing motionless behind her chair.
“I grant thee fifteen minutes, Jupia,” said the Empress coldly. “So get to the point.”
A slave girl stood behind the Empress, waving a huge fan; another handmaiden knelt beside the couch and brushed Salustra’s hair to a lustrous sheen. Another attended her nails, rubbing a perfumed liquid upon the finger tips. Jupia surveyed her mistress with barely concealed disapproval, her eye moving slowly from the beautiful face to the half-naked body.
“What I have to say, Majesty, will not take long,” she said stiffly.
Salustra yawned deliberately. “That wine!” she exclaimed. “The grapes must have been breathed upon by Loti. At any rate, her sour breath was evident in it.”
Sati, the supreme deity, had a multitude of earthly lovers and offspring. Her children were Loti, queen of the unrepentant dead; the gentle Mayhita, patroness of chaste women and little children; Detria, goddess of the harvest; Parenalia, goddess of earthly love; the virginal Denia, patroness of the arts and sciences; and Iberia, goddess of war and virility. There were three supernatural regions in religious lore. One was Drulla, the place of anguish and fire, over which Loti presided in her castle of flame, attended by her handmaidens, Hatred, Fear, Debauchery and Crime. To that dread abode went the wicked, the unrepentant, the cowards and the traitors. The second region was Crystu, land of spirits who had not finished their work on earth or who, proven worthy, prepared themselves for eternal bliss in the halls of Litia, where they would bask forever in the glorious light of Sati, whose palace was the sun. None falling into the flames and icy blackness of Drulla could ever escape. Few went directly to Litia. Those few were brave and gallant men who died in war, chaste and holy virgins, the High Priestess, women who died in childbirth, and the imperial family. All deities were feminine, but all had earthly lovers, except Denia. Masculinity was never deified. The pontiff was always a woman, her attendants always virgins. She ruled a priesthood of celibate men, and to these subordinates she assigned the lesser duties of cajoling the faithful.
Jupia lived in a dark palace within the shadow of the glittering Temple of Sati. She was never seen upon the streets except closely veiled and in her ceremonial litter. Before her litter walked the priests in their black and crimson robes, their heads bent, their hands folded on their breasts. It was considered a mortal offense to pry with curious eyes into the interior of the litter, and it was the most evil luck to listen, even casually, to the chanting of the priests in public places. Jupia moved in a cloud of superstition and fear. Her priestly attributes were wisdom, symbolized by a staff entwined by a green serpent; chastity, symbolized by the doves that flew unmolested through the temple; and immortality, exemplified by an eternal flame in the temple altar.
All this was so much mumbo jumbo to Salustra, and Jupia well knew this, as she examined the Empress’ remark for a hidden meaning.
“The wine was from the grapes in my own garden, great Salustra,” said the High Priestess in a sadly reproving tone.
“Then I know that Loti breathed upon them!” exclaimed Salustra with a wry face. “Bah! Do not look so outraged, Jupia. Dost think I am insinuating thou didst poison them for my special benefit?”
Jupia’s pale lips moved as though she were intoning a silent prayer.
Salustra gave her an impatient smile. “Art praying for my soul, Jupia? Do not, I implore thee! Loti already hath first claim upon it, and thy prayers will merely heighten the flames. What is thy business with me?”
“What I have to say will not take long, great Salustra,” repeated Jupia in a harsh voice. “But thy mighty father was always willing to listen to my prophecies and to my advice. What he did, thou mightst well do.”
Salustra inclined her head impatiently without speaking.
“Two nights ago I had an awful dream,” went on the Priestess, “but it was more like a vision. The air was hot, sultry, molten—”
“The heat was intense. No wonder thou didst have a bad dream.”
For a moment hatred, unconcealed, shone in Jupia’s eyes.
“Thy spare diet is enough to give thee a thousand horrors.” The Empress yawned.
Jupia’s thin hands clenched under her red robe. “I am not given to either horrors or bad dreams, Majesty,” she said harshly. “My conscience is clean, my life chaste, my thoughts virtuous, my couch unpolluted—”
“Then I should have your nightmares.” Salustra smiled. “But I swear to thee that I sleep like a babe on its mother’s bosom.”
The two women regarded each other intently, Salustra faintly smiling, the Priestess rigid and silent. Then Jupia resumed, in a controlled monotone. “The night was sultry. It seemed that I drowsed, and ye
t in a moment I was awake again, my blood running like ice through my veins.” She paused. Salustra made a gesture for her to continue. “And then, in a cloud of light, I saw thy glorious father, the mighty Lazar.”
She paused again and gave Salustra a glance.
The Empress lay back on her cushion and yawned once more. “I shall have the walls of his tomb examined,” she said dryly.
Jupia’s eyes flashed. “I saw him,” she repeated. “He was wearing the twelve-pointed crown of Atlantis, and there was a star on each point, glittering like points of flame. His face was majestic, but there were tears in his eyes. The dim light shone on him as it would have shone on a mortal.” Her face was pale and she visibly trembled.
Salustra frowned and motioned her to go on.
“I can still hear his voice. It sounded like a voice coming through a thick wall, but every word was recognizable. ‘Jupia,’ he said, T have tried to talk to my beloved daughter, Salustra, but she hears me not. But she feels my presence, the urging of my voice, the touch of my hand. I have talked to her soul; it hears my voice but still cannot accept my presence. That is why she hath been distracted, weary and sad for many days.’”
Salustra raised herself upon her elbow. The smile had gone from her face. She looked at Jupia suspiciously.
The High Priestess did not flinch. “Because he could not make thee hear, he came to me. And he hath a message for thee. As he spoke, he held out his sword, and lo, it was broken off but a few inches below the hilt. And then I looked at his crown, and it was no longer a crown. It was a wreath of roses, and they dripped blood. Tell Salustra that such is Atlantis,’ he said. Tell her that its sword is broken and its crown a faded wreath. Tell her that its hour draws near, and that already the halls of Loti open for it.’”
Salustra’s face for a moment revealed something akin to dread. But she said nothing.
Jupia smiled to herself. “He would save thee, he said. But he could tell thee nothing but this: ‘When destruction comes from the north, flee east or west.’”
Salustra quickly recovered. She threw back her head and laughed. “Go to! Dost think, Jupia, thou canst frighten me with thy dreams? Tell thy prophecies to the mooning crowds in the temple; frighten them into bringing greater sacrifices to the altar. I wager after such a story thy coffers will ring again.”
As though stung, Jupia quickly sprang up. Her tall, gaunt body quivered like a barren tree in a storm. She lifted her hand in a compelling gesture. “I have given thee warning,” she said coldly. “I can do no more. My duty is done. Thy fate is with the gods.” Without the customary obeisance, she turned abruptly and stalked from the chamber, followed closely by her virgins.
Salustra gave her a scornful glance. “Perfume the air!”
she cried to her slaves. “The old crone hath left a stench of death in it!”
True, she had felt the presence of her father at times, but put it down to an active imagination induced by his dying suggestion. She wished for his love, strength and counsel. And so she saw his familiar face and form. It was no more. Drulla, Crystu, Litia—they were all of one’s own making.
Salustra had more compelling things to think about. An hour after Jupia’s departure, she sat in secret council with the ambassadors from the court of Althrustri. Her ennui was evident in her every look and gesture. And even her trusted councillor, Mahius, appeared to reflect this weariness with diplomatic deviousness.
Tellan, the ambassador-in-chief, was accompanied by his aide, the wily and crafty Zoni. Salustra, watching the pair, smiled faintly. Her hand played with the gem at her throat, and it flashed with a ruby-red glow. The ambassador held a golden casket in his hand, which he extended reverently as he spoke.
Salustra ignored the casket. “Surely the great Signar did not have thee ask for a private interview for the purpose of giving me presents, Tellan. Out with it! What hast thou to say to me?”
Tellan glanced at Zoni, who lifted his brows, then with a bow extended the golden casket to the Empress.
“Our Emperor begs that thou wilt accept this humble gift, which, radiant though it is, cannot approach thy radiance.”
“A pretty speech,” said Salustra carelessly. “I’ll wager Signar did not compose that himself.”
She opened the casket and brought out a dazzling collar made of gems. It was composed of hundreds of magnificent stones, perfectly cut, splendidly matched. She lifted the collar and weighed it abstractedly, admiring its rainbow glow. Tellan and Zoni exchanged secret smiles of satisfaction.
“I am incapable of expressing my pleasure at such a gift,” she said slowly. She lifted her eyes sardonically. “What does Signar expect for this, my lords?”
Her frankness momentarily disconcerted the ambassadors.
Tellan bowed again, his head dropping to Salustra’s shining slipper. “Thy Majesty doth ask an honest question,” he murmured. “And it deserves an honest answer.” He stood erect and looked at the Empress admiringly. “Thou dost ask what our lord desires, Majesty. He desires thee.”
Salustra was silent for a second, remembering now what Mahius had said, then gave a cold and mirthless laugh of contempt. “Thou dost mean he desires Atlantis,” she said with a withering look.
“Nay, great Majesty,” broke in Zoni eagerly, “he desires only thee. He did say to us, T want the beautiful Salustra for my bride; to be my Empress and the mother of my children.’”
Salustra laughed again in derision. “I am only an appendage to the Empire he covets. If I were to offer him Atlantis alone, he would seize it with never a glance for me. Go to! Let us be frank. He is willing to be reasonable and to try a peaceful conquest. But what if I should send him this reply: ‘Salustra is flattered and overcome by the honor Signar doth pay her, but she must decline it’? What then, Tellan?”
Tellan smiled coldly, but made no reply.
Salustra toyed languidly with Signar’s gift. “And if I should send Signar that reply, it would be war?”
“Did I say so, Majesty?” Tellan asked in a mocking voice.
“No, thou didst merely imply it, Tellan. But come, we made a bargain to be frank. I have known for some time that Signar covets Atlantis, and that it is inevitable that he attempt conquest. He has stolen our atom-breaker, and does not hesitate to use it, thinking we are too civilized to strike first. But can he be sure I might not give the signal that would destroy millions? So he decides upon a peaceful method of gaining the same end. He will marry Salustra! Atlantis intact, not a smoldering ruin to be avoided because of dangerous radiation, will then be his. For such a prize he can even endure the Virgin Empress!”
Tellan’s mouth twitched. He looked at Zoni, whose face reflected his own discomfiture.
Salustra saw their concern, and amusement lurked in her eyes. “I should have your heads,” she said with a mocking smile.
The silent Mahius gave the envoys a reassuring glance.
“Signar’s ambitions are worthy of him,” said Salustra, enjoying their surprise. She toyed with the glittering collar on her knee. “He is of the bold blood that makes empires. I could wish no better than that a son of his should sit upon the throne of Atlantis. And so I intend it.”
Tellan stared at her incredulously; Zoni’s mouth fell open.
The Empress smiled enigmatically. “But I shall not marry him,” she continued. “What! Look not so dismayed, my lords!” She leaned forward in her chair. “This is the message you may take to him: The Empress Salustra declines his hand, feeling herself unworthy of the honor. But Salustra offers instead, in marriage, the lovely and gentle Tyrhia. There is a bride worthy of him, a chaste and virginal princess, who will bring no dishonor upon him. Tell him that Salustra will never marry; that no son of hers will wield the scepter over Atlantis; and that she will keep her Empire safe for the son of Signar and Tyrhia.”
The ambassadors looked at each other in stupefaction.
Salustra slid back in her chair, and waited with a faint smile.
“That is thy de
cision, great Empress?” finally cried a baffled Tellan.
Salustra inclined her head. “Let Signar consider my offer well. If he declines, then let it be war. I know that his legions will be mobilized, and the flag of war unfurled.”
Zoni raised a protesting hand. “Our lord,” he said passionately, “does not desire war with Atlantis. Thou hast been frank; we will be so too. It had been his dream, frankly, as that of his father, to annex Atlantis to Althrustri. He felt the day was inevitable when the two nations would come to a death grapple. He awaited that day. But now Atlantis is no longer his prior desire. Above his desire for conquest, above the joining of the two great nations, he desires thee and thee alone.”
Salustra rose impatiently. “Absurd!” she exclaimed. “How doth he know that he desires me? He hath never seen me! Go to!” She would have stepped down from her dais, but Tellan lifted a restraining hand.
“He hath many accounts of thee,” he said. “And they have made him desire thee, above all other things, as a regal figure uniquely to his liking.”
“The accounts lie,” said Salustra contemptuously. “Had they been truthful, he would not desire me.”
She would have withdrawn but Tellan’s eyes stopped her. “Thy Majesty’s decision is final?”
Salustra nodded shortly.
“We have but one thing to add, Majesty,” said Tellan. “A messenger arrived today in Lamora to announce the Emperor will arrive three days hence. He will take his answer himself.”
Salustra’s blandness suddenly deserted her. The color drained from her face, and she brushed past the envoys without a word. Mahius trailed after her. “He is on the way to Atlantis now, Mahius,” she said fiercely. “It is war!”
12
The day before Signar’s arrival, Lamora hummed with speculation. A few looked with troubled eyes at the Palace gleaming proudly on its eminence. Who was to blame, they asked, for this calamity about to befall them? The heat was intense, the sky brazen, the sea swelling uncertainly, the mountain tops aswim in a molten yellow mist. The streets sent up rank odors from every dark alley and court. Already unnerved by the ceaseless fog and the power breakdown, crowds jostled each other uneasily in the main thoroughfares, ignoring the cries of vendors and street entertainers and the whine of beggars, in their single-minded reaction to the press of events. Slaves were forced to beat their way through the wedged masses of sweating humanity to make a passage for their languid lords. Everywhere, the restless river of life constantly moved and flowed from one thoroughfare to the other—tall and sturdy men from Althrustri with the barbarian’s direct eye and swinging step; the small and scrambling men from Antilla, Letus, Nahi and Modura, with darting black eyes, curling dark hair, and the stamp of roguery upon every feature. They were interspersed here and there with giant blond natives of Gonelid, a far Arctic province subject to Althrustri, a land of six months’ night and six months’ sun. The shops blazed with light and color. Floated to market on barges, heaps of fruit—peaches, plums, grapes, oranges, lemons, apples, raisins, bananas, all kinds of melons—glowed in their stalls, attracting swarms of flies. Here, another shop displayed small, hand-woven rugs, still another dealt in cheap jewelry; others attracted throngs with cheap wine and unsweetened cakes, displayed sandals and knives and saddles and belts studded with brass nailheads, or sold sweetmeats and pastries and cuts of juicy meat fresh from open ovens. Some featured dolls for children, and other playthings. The largest crowd had gathered around a vendor who shouted of the vast sexual benefit to be obtained from a certain potion. Everywhere, there was noise, dust, heat, confusion. Lean dogs and cats sniffed at the heels of the mob. But these familiar pets were the only animals in sight, for all the feathered creatures, except those in cages, and all other wild life, from the wolves and jackals in the outlying forests to the mountain lions and bears, had already mysteriously disappeared in recent days.
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