“It belonged to my father,” she answered abstractedly. Her hand tightened over the necklace, as though this alone gave her renewed strength.
“I have heard of thy father, Lazar, from mine,” he said in a low voice. “The great Lazar doth live again in his daughter.”
“He loved Atlantis,” she answered.
“And I…I love Althrustri,” said Signar, his voice hardening.
Salustra looked out at the sea and the rolling waves. Beyond those waves, thought Salustra, were riding the hopes of Atlantis, refitted ships plodding with reconverted engines toward the coast; and to the north, legions marching to the border. She drew away a little distance from the Princess and Brittulia, so she and Signar could speak alone. “What thinkest thou of my crippled empire, Sire?”
“There is none greater,” he answered, “even now.”
She touched him playfully on his bare arm. “What! Dost thou not consider Althrustri greater?”
“I am not a fool, lady.”
“Will it not make a splendid heritage for thy son, my lord?”
“Thou art too generous, lady,” he said ironically. “I am overcome. But what of thy son? Wilt thou leave him without an empire?”
She shrugged. “I shall have no son. I shall never marry.” She glanced at him sharply.
He was still smiling, again with that quietly superior smile that irritated her so. “What! Dost thou expect to live out thy life without love?”
“Is love synonymous with marriage?” she returned carelessly. “I have never loved.”
“Never loved!” he exclaimed, as though incredulous.
She smiled lightly. “Thou dost confuse love with passion.”
“Are they not one and the same? Only poets and fools, who are sometimes identical, believe in love. They rebel from the reality of lust and so dress it in delicate garments.”
In moving leisurely about the garden, they paused before a cage that held a large black bird with a flaming red crest. Signar casually poked a finger through the gilded bars and whistled at the creature. It paused, surveying him with bright and savage eyes, and then, without warning, flew at the finger and struck it cruelly with its flashing beak.
The Emperor gave an angry cry of pain and quickly withdrew his finger. It was bleeding profusely. Several red drops inadvertently fell upon Salustra’s white robe. She shrank visibly.
Seeing her gesture, Signar regarded her with suddenly dancing eyes. “Behold, Salustra, my blood is upon thee!” he mocked. “‘Tis a bad omen!”
She shuddered involuntarily.
Tyrhia and Brittulia, startled, came up to join them. The young Princess cried aloud and closed her eyes, but Brittulia calmly wiped the blood from Signar’s hand with her own kerchief. She examined the wound dispassionately. “It is nothing, my lord,” she said. “It will soon heal.”
The brightly plumaged bird was shrilling excitedly in its cage, and the Emperor laughingly shook his fist at it. “The captive creature can strike back savagely, lady,” he said, turning again to the Empress.
“Quite true,” she murmured. She gave Tyrhia and Signar a fleeting glance. “You would perhaps like to discuss the nuptials privately.”
“As you say, lady.” He gave her a low bow.
With a brief nod for the group, Salustra turned and went back into her chamber. She tossed her robe upon a divan, and the stains suddenly seemed to leap at her. She lifted the robe and stared at the dried blood somberly. A bad omen, he had said. He knew not, indeed, how bad an omen it was.
20
In the Palace apartments provided by his host, Signar sat in grave counsel with General Siton and Minister Ganto and several others of his entourage. Ganto had just finished speaking, and the Emperor sat in silence, his chin in his hand.
“I suspected that she might try some treachery,” he said thoughtfully. “But never so obviously. There, she betrays her sex. Her courage is equaled only by her naïveté. We have honeycombed her nation with traitors and no word of it has heretofore reached her ears. However, with but a small force of our own, we are in a precarious position until the hour arrives when we may safely strike. Until then, it is essential that we know her every move.” He turned to Siton. “Has she no political intimate, no man in her confidence, whom we may seduce?”
“There is Mahius,” the general said doubtfully.
Signar shook his head in disgust. “That fool is too old to be bought.”
Ganto spoke eagerly. “Lord, there is such a one close to her, the Senator Divona with whom we have already profitably dealt. We first approached him when we learned that she deprived him of a fortune which he had gained in a dubious manner, and spurned him in the bargain.”
Signar smiled, well pleased. “Since we already know what he is, all we need know is his price.”
He rose and began to pace the chamber, frowning. “And so, in this very hour, as her couriers seek to alert her legions, these legions will be met by friendly legions made up of our own Althrustrian stock, willing to treat with them on practical terms.” He paused, and his face darkened. “We must keep close guard upon her, lest she despair and take her life when she learns she has failed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I am offended that she has underestimated my intelligence. But, still, I have other plans for her.”
Siton approached him, his large yellow teeth gleaming wolfishly. “Lord, why delay the hour? He who strikes first hath half the battle. Declare thyself the conqueror of Atlantis, and put this woman to death. While she lives, she is a rallying point for the Atlanteans still loyal to her line.”
Signar frowned and gazed toward the gray sea. “Slay her?” he said thoughtfully. “No, I will wait. And when I have Atlantis in my hand, I will deal with her myself. We must await advice as to how her legions received the proposals of our generals for greater bounty, fewer duties and early retirement. And whether my own fleet at sea circumvents hers. In a few days we shall know.”
“Lord,” said Siton, grinning with anticipation, “deliver her over to me. I waive all booty save this beautiful firebrand. Promise me, as my share, Salustra.”
Ganto frowned. “Nay, lord, have I not served thee well? And before thee thy father? I pray thee thou wilt give her to me.” He threw the general a contemptuous look. “Siton is a savage. He would gore her to death in one night.”
Before Signar’s dark scowl, the debate quickly subsided. “Remember well,” he said sternly, “that the lady is born a queen.”
He laid his hand on Siton’s burly shoulder and shook him slightly. “But, Siton, glower not so. Thou mayest have Tyrhia, that gentle little virgin. She is harmless. She is thine.” He turned to the offended Ganto. “And thou, thou mayest have thy pick of a thousand women. Take even the scrawny virgin Brittulia, if thou likest. They say that the meat closest to the bone is the sweetest. But remember, old friend, thou art valuable to me. Do thou be temperate!”
The two men’s spirits were soon restored, and the chamber rang with their coarse laughter.
Signar added a word of caution, “This dissolute and luxurious court is well hated by the common people of Atlantis. Limit your depredations to the women at court. The common people must be treated courteously and fairly. There are too many of them to offend.”
He dismissed his aides and stood in frowning silence for a while, then went out upon the colonnade for a breath of air. A heavy fog drifted in from the sea, which was now invisible. Only an ominous growl, like an animal at bay, gave evidence of its nearness. The garden below shivered in a cold, dank wind. He started back as he saw two women suddenly emerge in the gardens just beneath him. One was Brittulia, the other was Salustra.
Watching the Empress, Signar suddenly remembered her in his arms, her soft lips under his, her warm, pulsating body writhing wildly against his breast; he could almost hear again the rapid beat of her heart.
As though she had tuned to his thoughts, she turned toward the colonnade and lifted her face. She smiled as she saw him and raised her hand. He
bowed mechanically. She resumed her pacing and finally disappeared with Brittulia into the shadow of the trees.
Signar returned to his chamber deeply troubled. His hands clenched and unclenched, as though he were enduring violent pain. “Salustra!” he whispered. And then burst into self-mocking laughter. He was no better than those louts Siton and Ganto.
21
The seduction of traitors was a comparatively easy matter. Divona was a clever, crafty man, his debauched face not without charm. He liked to think of himself as a figure of delicate elegance. Salustra had repudiated him and his morality. Therefore, he hated her. Toliti, the austere Senator, hated Salustra because he thought her immoral. He was dyspeptic and had no taste for banquets and debaucheries. He had long considered it the sacred duty of all virtuous men to oppose her. There were other traitors—for one, the grim Jupia, the High Priestess, an elderly virgin secretly envious of a younger, beautiful woman who frankly enjoyed what Jupia had so obviously denied herself.
There was also Gatus, rancorously resenting the suicide, prompted by rejection, of his wife’s brother, Lustri. And the Senator Sicilo, dogmatic, pompous, who never forgot that Salustra had baited him in public. There were the Senators Zutlian, Ludian, Consilini and countless others—cowardly, greedy, rapacious, ready to desert a sinking ship without a care for the captain who had brought them this far. On these Salustra wasted little thought. If things went her way they would pay for their disloyalty. Otherwise, they would feel the hard hand of the conqueror. Of that, she was sure.
After forty-eight uneasy hours, Salustra had had no word from her nearby fleet and legions. Out from the capital rolled waves of command; only silence or, at the most, evasive replies returned.
“What has happened, Mahius?” she asked her councillor anxiously.
The old man tried to reassure her and himself. “Thou must remember, Majesty, that it is not as though we were moving openly, and thus, all things must be shrouded and vague.”
Nevertheless, he had a foreboding of treachery. In the restless need to do something, Salustra sent for Creto, the Prefect of the Royal Guard. He arrived swiftly.
“Thou hast doubled the Palace Guard, Creto,” she said abruptly. “Treble it.” He made a profound obeisance, and the rigidity of her face softened. “Dost thou love me, Creto?” she asked sadly.
“Thou knowest, lady,” he replied.
“Thou hast five hundred picked men, Creto, besides the Guard. Are all loyal to me?”
“They would gladly die for thee, Majesty.”
Salustra hesitated, glanced at Mahius. “I trust thee, Creto,” she said. In a lowered voice, she told the Prefect of her plans for Signar and his men. “No one at court but thee, and Mahius, knows of this.”
The Prefect met the grave eyes of Mahius with an anxious frown. “No one knoweth, Majesty, but Mahius?” he said. “What of the Senate? The Senate hath authority to veto thy orders, Majesty, to disperse both the legions and the fleet. What of that?”
“I had no time,” said Salustra. “When all is ready, I shall so inform the Senate. They would have quibbled, doubted, delayed, and Signar could not but learn of it.”
The Prefect was filled with gloom. “There are no secrets for long in Atlantis. And when they hear, as they may have already, they will react by countermanding thy orders, Majesty. Who knows but what the veto hath already been given?”
Mahius nodded somberly. “So I fear.”
Salustra angrily turned to Creto. “If I give the order, wilt thou put these cravens to death?”
He gave a gesture of obedience.
“If thou betrayest me, Creto, my last order to thee will be the sword. Thou wilt do that for me?”
“There is nothing thou couldst ask that I would not do, Majesty!” he cried.
In truth there were no secrets in Atlantis. First the Senate and then the barbarians had learned of Salustra’s dilemma.
Signar soon heard of the constitutional crisis.
“The Senate,” chortled Ganto, “is disaffected. Even those who held no hatred for Salustra are affronted by the constitutional breach. They have not only repudiated her orders but in secret session voted her death to a man.”
“Jackals!” exclaimed Signar with contempt. “What care they about the constitution? The lioness is wounded, so they claw over the remains. They leave an evil taste in my mouth! It will be well to annihilate every one of them when our hour arrives.”
His aides gazed at each other in consternation. “That wanton hath bewitched him,” whispered Siton to Ganto.
“So they approved her death, eh?” mused Signar aloud, pacing the spacious chamber Salustra had made his. “Is that to curry favor with me?”
“Partly, lord,” said Siton, “but this is a constitutional monarchy. Salustra’s recent commands without the approval of the Senate are judged acts of treason. At thy word they would order her execution.”
Signar twisted his lip thoughtfully between his fingers. “Let her own Senate condemn her if they will. Her blood will not be upon me.” His brow cleared. “And the legions? What of them? Thou sayest, Ganto, that her legions have withdrawn from the border, and their fleet hath merged into mine?”
“Yes, so sayeth Divona. Meanwhile, our spies are moving among her legions, and their desertion to us is only a matter of hours.”
“Yes, the lioness is trapped,” reflected Signar, “doomed because she is the living conscience of a decadent people who hate her for the demands she makes on their wasted natures.”
He emptied a flagon of wine and then, with a mercurial change of mood, relapsed into gloom.
The envoys, Tellan and Zoni, were now announced. They were eager to proclaim the success of their plotting. “We have Atlantis, lord!” exclaimed Tellan. “Thou canst move with safety whensoever thou desirest.”
Signar tried not to show his contempt for Atlantean turncoats. “What of this Creto, who I hear was once her lover?”
“He was her love, ‘tis rumored, and loyal to her. But we have bribed the Guard, and they will turn on him.”
Zoni unrolled a flap of parchment. “All in her court have been won over except her senile minister, and this Creto, and one other, the insignificant poet Erato.”
Signar uttered an oath. “He must die, this Erato. Mahius is a harmless old man. We might be induced to spare him. I would shed as little blood as possible. I need the good will of Atlantis to rule it.”
“And the Empress,” said Tellan, “thou wilt deliver her to the Senate?”
Signar rose abruptly and was about to speak when the curtain moved and a guard entered with a warning gesture. “The Empress!” he announced.
She stood against the crimson curtain like a moon goddess, her smiling eyes moving impishly over the surprised conclave. “I am not intruding, my lord?” she said softly.
“Thy radiance, like the sun’s, is more welcome for being so long absent,” he said gallantly.
She glanced significantly at the others. Signar made an abrupt gesture of dismissal. For long moments the two regarded each other in silence. Then she moved closer with a step full of grace. She laid her hand lightly upon his arm. “The cares of empire are ever with us, is it not so, my lord? There are times when I wish I were the veriest slave girl.”
“Thou art a great Empress,” said Signar, moved in spite of himself.
“Greatness!” she murmured. “What is it? A passing salute on the lips of a dying people! That which they acclaim today they will rend tomorrow. Fame is as evanescent as the fog. It drifts in, unbidden, and is dissipated by the strange suns of new events.”
He knew she had not come to discuss philosophy, but he could well afford to sit back and philosophize with her. “What dost thou consider true fame, Salustra?” he asked in earnest.
She toyed thoughtfully with her necklace. “War, conquest, what are they? Conquerors write their names in blood, and the red river shifts, and the name is no more. But the poet and the sculptor and their brethren glow with increasing
brightness above the ever changing tide of human events.”
“As thou dost say,” Signar rejoined, “death swallows us all, and we are all molten metal again, ready to be poured into new shapes. Today, I am myself. What shall I be tomorrow? Will it matter to me whether I was poet or king, peasant or slave? If I were a singer of songs, or a hewer of marble, and am born again, will I recognize that which I have created in the past? Thou dost see, even enduring fame is worthless.”
She had not realized before that this facile mind had seriously contemplated the prospect of reincarnation. He was not the barbarian she had thought. She found herself tilting wits with him and enjoying it, though she still resented his excessive ardor at the dinner table as an act of pure intoxication.
“By his efforts,” she said, “the artist builds a house of beauty in which we forget for a time the ugliness of life and its terrible futility. We can wander through its columns and inhale the sweet scent of the fragrant flowers that dead hands have placed there for our refreshment. This is what the poet, the composer and the artist leave of fame behind them.”
He shrugged, his face glum. “Ah, well, there is little in life even for the fortunate. Drinking what is offered, we find it does not quench our thirst.”
“We are truly fools,” said Salustra, laughing at her own folly. “Yet we must confess that we would not be other than what we are. Is it not so?”
Signar smiled. “Philosophy is a splendid exercise for the fattening mind,” he said. “But it is a passing stimulant and leaves the spirit unsatisfied.”
They regarded each other in friendly fashion, notwithstanding that each understood that the other was bent on an opposing course.
“I did thee an injustice, Sire,” said the Empress. “I thought thee a total barbarian, without subtlety or sophistication. But I find thee a wise man, or, rather, I consider thee wise because thy philosophy doth coincide with mine.” Her laughter was genuinely gay.
Signar took her hand and kissed it. “I value thy good opinion more than the fairest face.”
The Romance of Atlantis Page 14
