She smiled wryly to herself. “How well he knows us.”
14
“What thinkest thou of him, Mahius?”
The old man spread out his hands and his expression was one of sadness.
She struck her hands together. “At least he is a man.”
“Greater praise apparently cannot be given,” replied the Minister dryly.
Salustra burst into a peal of laughter. “His ministers are now advising him of my decision,” she cried. “Watchest thou tonight, Mahius!”
The Palace shone brightly against the dark sky. The moon was obscured, as usual recently, by the unexplained vapors. From the sea came a restless growl, like the sound of a ravenous beast. A wind blowing uneasily from the sea brought a breeze at one moment cool, another as scorching as though it had passed over coals.
Tables with rare dainties had been spread in the great banquet hall. An army of slaves moved like graceful messengers, anticipating each little want. A broad stage had been erected in the center of the great circle of tables and awaited the players who were to entertain for this notable occasion.
All the nobility of Atlantis seemed on hand. The hall rang with music, laughter, gaiety, as the guests settled down to the festivities on soft divans and ivory chairs, as suited their pleasure.
At Salustra’s table sat the Emperor Signar, his own principal minister, and an intimate friend or two. The others were the cream of Lamora’s wit, intelligence and nobility. The Senator Toliti served as the arbiter of the feast, and the Senator Divona, famed for his cynicism, kept the conversation flowing. At this table were also Jesico, celebrated for his collections of mosaics and exquisite statuettes; Zutlian, with a legion of mistresses and a manner of lofty purity; Jupian, whose female slaves were unrivaled for beauty and sundry accomplishments; Poltrius, whose books were for only the lascivious; Ludian, the most notorious debauchee in Lamora, who could always be counted upon for the most provocative stories when exhilarated by wine. Here were also the most renowned scientists and philosophers: Yonis, the idealist; Sodoti, the vitalist; his bitter rival, Everus, the mechanist, who insisted man was an animated machine; Talius, whose philosophy was ruthlessly masculine (he being a sickly man with a meager frame and an effeminate face); Zetan, calm and kind and very wise; Lodiso, always seething with plans for an ideal state; and Morti, of whom it was said that he laughed at everything, including himself. Here were also Torili, the musician; Galo, whose statues were living fire; and Stanti, whose frescoes were marvels of licentiousness.
Signar was at Salustra’s right. At her left sat Tyrhia, wearing in her hair a circlet of stars. Beyond Tyrhia slumped the dwindling figure of old Mahius, gaunt in his white robes. Salustra, clad in smooth and shimmering robes of silver, Signar’s jeweled collar around her throat, next to her own precious chain, seemed strangely aloof. Beyond Signar sat Erato, somewhat abstracted. At intervals, he would glance gravely at his imperial inamorata over the rim of his goblet.
His slim fingers drummed restlessly on the table. Upon one thumb glittered an imposing yellow gem, the gift of Salustra. Beside the vital, mature presence of Signar, he seemed a callow youth. He was none too happy with the situation. He had already conceived an intense dislike for Signar, and Signar made no attempt to conceal his contempt for the poet.
“We have few poets in Althrustri,” he said, looking at Salustra, “and these sing only great songs of our warlike history.”
Erato retorted boldly. “One bloody war is the same as another, varying only slightly in circumstance. Therefore he only is a poet who sings of subtle things, of beauty and of the glory and the subtleties of the souls of men.”
Signar smiled disdainfully. “Subtleties! It is evident thou dost know little of men! Men are but beasts, greater than the ordinary beasts only because they are more cunning.”
“Then thou dost not believe in the soul, great Emperor?” asked Erato, smiling faintly.
Salustra turned her eyes upon the two men and listened. It amused her that Erato’s little philosophic tidbits were being made the butt of Signar’s wit, but she was also annoyed. She saw herself being attacked under cover of the attack upon Erato.
“Soul,” rejoined Signar, turning his goblet about in his fingers. “What dost thou mean by the soul, dreamy youth? I confess that I have never seen a soul, but perhaps thy experience hath been broader than mine. I have dealt only with men’s bodies and minds, and have found them perplexing enough. But I am always willing to learn. Of what substance is the soul, what texture? What is its appearance?”
Erato looked at him steadily. “No man hath seen the soul, except perhaps the very pure, or very wise.”
Signar broke into laughter. “The very pure!” mimicking Erato’s soft voice. “What are the pure? Starved creatures, without lust for life. A wise man? Wise men are fools, too craven to do aught but prattle or scribble.”
Salustra found herself nodding at this echoing of her own earlier remarks to Erato.
Erato’s slim hand tightened on the table. A little burst of applause rose from the others.
Signar shrugged carelessly. He sprawled upon the divan, the hard lines of his powerful figure revealed under his tunic. His lips brushed Salustra’s bare shoulder. His fingers dropped to her hand and closed upon it.
For a moment she attempted to disengage her hand, but his grip only tightened. She pointedly leaned across the table that she might catch a remark of Lodiso’s. This philosopher had now a new shadowy paradise in mind and was enthusiastically sketching it for the benefit of his listeners.
“Sex should be a national concern, not an individual one,” Lodiso was saying. “Children would be bred only from the finest, and upon birth removed from their mothers and nurtured by the state. Men would not be bound to one woman, nor women to one man. Continual intercourse between the individual man and woman would be discouraged for the good of the state.”
Signar moved even closer to the Empress. “That would not please us, eh, Salustra?” he whispered. His lips touched her cheek and his arm moved about her waist possessively. Erato saw the angry protest on Salustra’s lips, the flash of her eye. He saw Signar’s hand holding down the fingers of the Empress, then suddenly releasing her hand to fiddle with the stem of his goblet, as though he were bored by the conversation. Erato chose this moment to lean forward across the table. He swayed, unaccountably, and his goblet struck that of Signar’s, knocking it out of his hand and dashing the wine over the Emperor’s robe and person.
Signar sat upright, turning his face furiously upon the poet. Erato displayed the utmost concern and anxiety. “Pardon, a thousand times, my lord!” He lifted a corner of the cloth and would have wiped the wine from Signar’s hand. But the Emperor, drawing back, coldly flicked the remaining wine into the poet’s face. Erato calmly wiped the wine from his pale cheek.
“Dolt! Fool!” The Emperors voice rose above the music, and the others at the table stared uneasily. Signar turned wrathfully to the Empress. “How came this emasculated child at thy table?”
The occupants of the other tables, as though touched by a chilling wind, froze into silence. Even the music died away. Hundreds of faces were turned uncertainly in the direction of the imperial table.
Salustra glanced beyond Signar to Erato. The poet’s eyes met hers and saw in them, beyond the assumed frown, gratitude, even amusement.
“Erato,” she said reprovingly, “thy carelessness is inexcusable. Thou wilt oblige me by awaiting my orders in the Great Hall.”
Erato bowed profoundly and with an unhurried step left the scene. He had only a short while to wait. After a time, a slave appeared from beyond the mighty columns and approached him, handing him with a bow a roll of parchment. With trembling fingers, the poet unrolled the missive. He strained his eyes in the uncertain light of the flickering lamps.
“Impulsive poet,” Salustra had written, “be at the foot of the great stairway in the gardens before dawn, and I will be there to reprimand thee.”
15
At one table a certain constraint followed the dismissal of Erato. “I like not the barbarian’s impudence,” whispered Toliti to Senator Divona. “Gods! He acts as if he hath already conquered Atlantis!”
Divona smiled faintly, shrugged and spread out his hands. His glance moved rapidly over the table. “Conqueror!” he whispered in return. “Who knows? Look at Salustra. She smiles now at Signar as though she were indeed about to wed him.”
“But look at Mahius!” said Toliti. “He looks as though he were contemplating his own grave.”
“Old croaker!” said Divona contemptuously. “He trembles at the songs of birds!”
Contani, fat, greasy, old, with a cherubic face that hid a cunning mind, leaned toward them. “I wonder how long it will be before we are stuck like goats? I like not the look of things. These barbarians have too insolent an air. Have I not two of his crude generals billeted in my house? One broke a crystal and gold vase that my father did leave me, and I would not have taken the ransom of Mantius for it!”
“Evil days are upon us,” said Toliti solemnly.
Contani groaned, shaking his huge head. “Evil days, indeed. I never thought that the glory of Atlantis would be forced to greet as equals barbarians such as these! Watch yonder hog thrust handfuls of roast kid into his mouth, and gulp down the horror with huge drafts of wine!”
Divona’s smile was enigmatic. “Remember, they are our guests,” he whispered.
The uproar of music and laughter drowned out any further conversation of this nature.
Signar was drinking freely. He was still somewhat sullen. He ignored Salustra and devoted his attention to a fair young courtesan in his entourage, who seemed to melt at this mark of favoritism. The rest of his party followed his lead, insolently ignoring their hosts, shouting over the music and mawkishly commenting upon the effeteness of their hosts. Salustra smiled tolerantly, as a mother might smile at the antics of unruly children. The Atlanteans, observing their Empress’ manner, for the most part maintained an uneasy composure. There was a fixed smile on Salustra’s face now. It was as though she had hung that smile upon her lips and then had retreated behind it. She drank little, ate less. At times she spoke gently to Tyrhia or laughed at some remark of a Senator’s. She studiously ignored Signar’s apparent preoccupation with another woman, who was obviously little more than a camp-follower.
At this point, typically, two dreamy-eyed philosophers, with characteristic academic naïveté, were engaged in an earnest discussion that had no relevance to the realities of the situation.
“I cannot agree with thee that truth is purely subjective,” said Yonis, the earnest-eyed spinner of philosophic fables. “I say that truth is objective, and within the reach of man. There are certain fixed facts which even the most cynical must recognize.”
“There is no truth,” rejoined Morti with a smile. “War, violence, revolution, all result from a foolish conviction of objective truth. If we acknowledge that all truth is subjective, we should have a tolerant and understanding world, a world able to laugh at itself! Man takes himself too seriously. In himself he sees the center of the universe, and in this misconception has built a civilization full of falseness, lies and hypocrisies. As part of this lie, man considers the prospect of living eternally. He frets and fumes through life, half hoping there is more than he sees ahead, rather than just concentrating on enjoying himself before plunging into the unthinking gloom from whence he emerged.”
Pausing in his own enjoyment, Signar looked at the philosopher intently and then announced: “Thou talkest too much. Thou shouldst take thy own advice, and laugh at thyself.”
Morti glanced at him with a philosophical smile. “If Sati were to allow me but one gift, I would crave the gift of being able to laugh at myself.”
Signar smote his hands together approvingly.
But Yonis was too much the philosopher to allow himself to be so easily routed. He leaned forward, moving a finger solemnly as he spoke. “We were speaking of truth. And truth is a somber thing, not to be approached with laughter. Man’s mission should be to discover truth …”
“Why?” interrupted Signar blandly.
Yonis was disconcerted. “Why?” he repeated lamely. “Is not knowledge the only desirable thing in this world?”
“We do not live forever,” said Signar. “Why acquire profound knowledge when we must only carry it to the grave with us? Why not simply be happy?”
“But in knowledge is happiness,” insisted Yonis. “With increased knowledge come increased beauty and fullness of life. The lower animals are happier than we. They pursue desires without a thought for the future. But who would be an animal?”
Signar clapped his hands disdainfully. “Keep debating the mysteries of life, and as you do, we will resolve them for you.”
Salustra now chose to join the conversation. “Thou art weary, my lord?” she asked. Their eyes locked for a moment. And then Signar burst into a loud laugh.
“Who could be weary beside thee? Thou art a veritable pool of pulchritude, in which I would be happy to drown myself while others talk on.”
In the same vein, she lifted her goblet to her lips with a smile and drank with him. “Thou hast apparently spared time from more energetic pursuits to learn the useful art of flattery, my lord.”
“Nay, lady, libel not truth with the name of flattery.”
“Thou dost underestimate my intelligence, my lord,” she said in a voice of velvet.
At this moment a blare of trumpets pierced the air. As though dropping from the sky, the famed dancer, Ostasi, suddenly appeared on an illuminated stage. He was a beautiful youth, combining the delicacy of a girl with the lithe strength of a young and joyous man. He was naked, and his hair, short and curling, was a crown of pale light. Exultation, sensuality, passion glittered upon his delicate face. The music fell into a soft and insidious murmur, which stirred the blood and quickened the pulses. The dancer moved softly about the stage, swaying dreamily, his hands negligently upon narrow hips. A pale violet light fell upon him, so that he seemed to move in amethystine mists of illusion, and simultaneously all the lamps dimmed. Softer and more sensuous sounded the music as the dancer swayed through the violet light like a statue drifting through sun-touched water. A profound silence fell upon the diners, and no sound, save the music, the murmur of the sea, and the soughing of the trees, disturbed the deep night.
The music, heretofore languid, now began to take on a quicker note, and then, like a flame, a young girl appeared upon the stage, naked except for the long duskiness of her shining hair. Her body was slim, white, airy and delicate, and with her appearance the lights changed to a deep rose. The youth, as though stricken immobile with admiration at her appearance, stood in the center of the stage in an attitude of reverence. The girl floated about him, like a white rose petal drifting before a scented wind. Her hair flowed about her hips, half concealing her enticing beauty. Joy, innocence, mirth, provocative childishness glimmered on her small and lovely face. She seemed a child, innocently dancing in the light of the dying sun to the tune of her own inner harmony.
The music became quicker, and then, like a statue leaping to life, the young man stirred, and with movements of extraordinary grace began an eager pursuit of the retreating girl.
Salustra, smiling, watched the dancers. Her lips barely moved in a reply to Tyrhia. The young princess turned to Brittulia, and the elder virgin took her charge’s hand with a gesture of despair.
The dance became wilder, gayer, madder. Colors flowed into each other; the dancers were drowned in blue light like the shadow of the moon, which then flowed into scarlet, into gold, into green like shimmering water, and then scarlet again. So deep were the colors that the dancers were barely seen as flashing white limbs, and then, as though weary and desirous of surrender, the girl fell into her pursuer’s arms. Immediately, the great hall was plunged into darkness, the music ceased. There was an ominous rumble in the distance, and the building shook. For a moment
profound silence fell upon the stupefied assembly, and then pandemonium prevailed.
Salustra reached a hand toward Tyrhia, but the girl had shrunk from her. And then a smothered cry burst from the Empress. She was seized in a viselike grip. As she struggled, the silver robes were almost torn from her body. She was crushed against a man’s breast, and her cries silenced by hard, devouring lips. She could not move; her hair fell about her, and her senses dimmed. She lay, half fainting, in shock. She felt the ravenous lips leave her own and move on to her throat, shoulders, breasts. Dim mists floated past her closed eyes, and great drums roared in her ears. And then, as abruptly as she had been seized, Salustra was released. Her trembling hands adjusted her torn garments automatically.
In a few moments the lights came on. Salustra, still shaken, pushed her hair from her face, and turned angrily on Signar. He was half reclining beside her, smiling and composed. Salustra put her hand to her throat. The jeweled collar, Signar’s gift, had been torn loose and now lay between Signar and herself, like a miniature cluster of fallen stars. Signar picked it up, then looked at Salustra sardonically. “What a misfortune if it had been lost!” he said softly. He would have clasped it about her throat, but with firm fingers she took it from his hand and laid it on the table.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It would have been a misfortune. It is the ransom of an empire.”
He raised his brows. “Ransom?”
They looked at each other intently.
“Shall we say a token purchase?”
He made a deprecating gesture. Salustra pushed the collar from her. With an air of indulgence, Signar lifted the collar negligently with one finger, then let it drop upon the table with a clang. “That for the ransom,” he said.
The performance continued as if nothing had happened. Others now appeared upon the stage: Serto, the noted weight-lifter, Lelia, Atlantis’ most famous singer, Noti, the mighty pugilist, Torili, a divine musician. But the artists performed almost unnoticed. The wine, together with the suggestive dance, had done its work, and in this new climate the spectators were looking to new titillating diversions. Men and women seemed to merge as one in the dim light. A cry rose from Brittulia’s direction. Siton, Signar’s burly General-in-chief, was now forcing his embraces upon the daughter of Zahti. Brittulia, half-insane with fear, was struggling, as if for her life.
The Romance of Atlantis Page 12
