The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  Salustra gave him a lackluster look. “Tell me about Althrustri, my lord,” she said softly.

  He shrugged carelessly. “My country,” he said, “is not like Atlantis. It is a fierce land, the northern sections icebound and under snow and heavily timbered. As thou dost know, only the eastern and southern borders are settled. The rest is virgin, with vast natural resources. But I have visions of great cities where only wilderness now flourishes. My people are strong and adventurous and need only a little encouragement to expand their flair for commerce.”

  His candor surprised her. “Where dost thou expect to obtain such encouragement?” she asked.

  Signar played with the stem of his goblet. “The gods may be kind.”

  “Thou dost mean thou wilt force the gods to be kind.”

  Their eyes held each other for a long moment. Then Salustra glanced aside and a shadow fell over her features again.

  He laid his fingers over hers. “Who can demand that another be kind?” he said softly.

  She withdrew her hand, lifted her goblet, and held it high in her hand. The wine cast a red glow over her pallid profile. “Let us drink to our friendship, Sire!”

  Still gazing upon her, he raised his glass, touched it to his lips, then drew back his head as if to drink, and paused.

  “Wait!” she commanded.

  He put down the goblet and looked at her with surprise.

  “What aileth thee, Salustra?” he asked. “Shall we not drink to our friendship?”

  “Let us talk first.” she said.

  He lifted his goblet again, his eyes dancing with a reckless mirth. “Let us drink to futility!” he cried. He again touched the goblet to his lips, as though to drink.

  “Wait!” again cried Salustra, half rising. He stared at her in feigned astonishment, returning the goblet to the table. She sank back into her seat, her face ashen. “A feeble toast!” she said. “Hast thou no better?”

  He shrugged. “What better? The gods, in a sportive humor, created us, as a writer of plays creates a drama, for their own amusement.”

  As he spoke, Signar just barely heard the sound for which he had waited, muffled footsteps behind the crimson curtains.

  He lifted his goblet again and regarded the wine critically. “In this,” he said lightly, “we have our antidote. Drowned in wine, we can even mock the gods and curse them gaily.” Again he touched the brim to his lips, watching the Empress closely.

  “Wait, my lord!” she cried a third time, her hand outstretched in command. At that moment, the heavens were divided as though by a colossal sword, and a great peal of thunder and lightning shook the earth. The lightning seemed to find a focus in Salustra, every gem upon her body shining like a star. She seemed oblivious of this new tremor.

  “I wish to talk to thee,” she said in a strained voice. “Let us not drink yet.” She fell back into her seat and covered her face with her hands for a moment, then lifted her head with a bitter smile. “I have discovered something, Sire. I am a coward. I lack courage and resolution. In other words, I am a woman.”

  She looked up wildly, laughing now, her face flushed. “My lord!” she cried. “Let us drink! But do thou give me thy wine. See, I have touched my goblet with my lips. Drink! It is a little custom in Atlantis, for friends to exchange in this manner.” She was leaning across the table, still convulsed with laughter, her goblet extended in her hand. Grimly he gave her his goblet, and took her own goblet. She lifted his goblet to the light. Her eyes were sparking, her teeth gleaming between her laughing lips. “To thee, my lord!” she cried. “To Atlantis, which I now betray, and to the infernal gods!”

  She put the glass to her lips, drew back her head, and would have finished it in one gulp had not the Emperor suddenly reached forward and dashed the cup from her lips. The wine splattered over her dress. Simultaneously, the earth shuddered under the clattering crash of thunder, and the leaden skies turned into a flaming orange ball.

  After that last earthshaking crash they sat together in stunned silence. The Empress looked down at her stained robe, and mutely shook the drops from her hands.

  “Why didst thou desire to die, Salustra?” he asked softly. “And why didst thou spare me?”

  She looked at the shattered goblet at her feet and her head dropped.

  “Tell me why thou didst spare me, Salustra,” he repeated gently. “And why didst thou intend to die in my stead?”

  Her eyes were closed, as though she hoped to close off reality for a moment.

  His voice was compassionate. “Didst thou wish to die because thou didst think thou hadst betrayed Atlantis? Nay, think not so, Salustra. I knew the wine was poisoned before I came to thee. I would not have swallowed it. So condemn not thy cowardice.”

  She lifted her head. “Thou didst know the wine was poisoned?” she said dully.

  “Yes, I was warned.”

  She pushed aside the damp curls that clung to her forehead. “Who told thee?” she asked.

  “Thy sister, Tyrhia,” he said in a low voice. “She was told so by another.”

  “My sweet little Tyrhia,” she said whimsically.

  “Not so sweet,” he said dryly.

  “I have violated the great law of hospitality, Sire,” she said. “I have sought thy death.”

  She held out her hand and he looked away. “What!” she exclaimed. “Thou wilt not take my hand? Well, thou art no hypocrite.” In a sudden shift of mood, her voice was almost gay now. “But thou dost not ask if I will attempt thy death again, for thou art in my power, thou must remember!”

  He laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Nay, it is thou who art in my power, Salustra.”

  He rose and walked swiftly to the crimson curtains, and flung them aside. In the hall outside stood her own imperial Guard. At their head was a smiling Siton.

  Salustra didn’t flinch for a moment. With a calm stride she moved toward the soldiers. A few paces from the guards, she halted. Under her piercing scrutiny the soldiers shifted uneasily. “So,” she said humorously, “you, too, soldiers of Lazar!”

  A murmur rose from the men, but they did not meet her gaze.

  Smiling lightly, Salustra touched the foremost soldier on his asbestos breast. “Thou didst fight beside my father, Uslio,” she said gently. “Thou wert wounded, fiercely beset. He stood over thy body, bleeding from many wounds, and saved thee, though he well nigh died himself.” She paused. “He loved thee as did I.”

  The soldier’s eyes showed his shame.

  Salustra turned to another of the mailed giants. “And thou, Lio,” she said in that same gentle voice. “My father took thee from slavery whilst thou wert a child. Thou didst wash his feet with grateful tears.”

  The soldier groaned and turned aside. Siton glanced uneasily, gripping his sword. Signar shook his head with a frown.

  Salustra’s smiling eyes moved over the rest of the men, almost tenderly. “My father gave you to me,” she said. “All of you swore to serve me to the death.” She shrugged. “Poor flesh!” she said sadly. “I do not blame you. You were bought by one stronger than I and I commend your discretion.”

  She turned to Signar with a mocking gesture. “Take them, my lord. May they serve thee better than they served me. What was it thou didst say of futility?” She moved back to the table, standing there, smiling, as though at some secret jest. “I am to understand that all of Atlantis hath deserted to thee, Signar?”

  He inclined his head without speaking. She looked at him with ostensible admiration. “My only shame,” she said, “is that I must have appeared a blind and stupid fool in thy eyes.”

  “Nay!” he exclaimed. “I know thee for what thou art.”

  “And Creto?” she asked. ‘What of my poor Prefect?”

  “Do with him what thou wilt. I will free him at thy word.”

  “And Mahius?”

  “He, too, is spared. He loved thee. That is sufficient.”

  “And Erato?” she murmured.

  A frown darkened Signar
’s brow. Then he shrugged. “He is thine, Salustra,” he said in a low voice.

  “And Tyrhia?”

  He smiled grimly. “As thou must know, I was only playing thy game. She is free to love whom she wilt.”

  “Or hate whom she wilt,” said Salustra bleakly. She sighed. “I have no other friends,” she added half-aloud.

  He inclined his head. “Thou didst give thy all to thy people and they have betrayed thee. I have learnt a timely lesson.”

  She shrugged. “There is neither right nor wrong; there are only strength and weakness,” she said indifferently. “And may I ask, Sire, what is thy intention for Atlantis?”

  “It will be annexed to Althrustri,” he answered eagerly. “I intend no reprisals. Atlantis will gain. She will become stronger, more vigorous, imbued with new life and new hope and strength by the infusion of the young blood of Althrustri.”

  She was silent, gazing at the sky. The orange glow had disappeared, but the thunder grumbled sporadically in the distance.

  “Thou hast asked for others, Salustra,” said Signar gently. “Thou hast not asked what I intend to do with thee.”

  “I?” she asked. “Thou wilt, of course, have me executed.”

  When he made no answer an expression of alarm crossed her features. She laid a trembling hand on his arm. “My lord,” she said tremulously, “take everything, but grant me death; let me die quickly, without humiliation.”

  “I do not wish thee to die, Salustra. I have other uses for thee.” His face was stern and unyielding. “Moreover, I require a solemn oath that thou wilt not attempt to take thy life. And I will hold Creto, Mahius and Erato hostages to that vow. If thou dost die by thy own hand, these three will follow thee by no easy road. Dost thou understand, Salustra? If thou diest, these who love thee die also.”

  “My lord, of what use can I be to thee? Art thou mean enough to hold me up to the scorn of a world I have ever despised?”

  “I desire not thy humiliation, lady. Thou givest thyself little credit by such a thought. Wouldst thou have treated me so if thou hadst conquered me? Nay, I will not insist upon an answer! But come, thy promise.”

  “My promise?” she murmured. “Take it. It is thine.”

  “And now, think not that I am ungenerous. Mahius will spend his days in comfort and seclusion. I shall try to induce that foolish Creto to join me. Erato shall be returned to his cousin, the King of Dimtri. All those for whom thou hast a weakness shall retain their honor and dignity.”

  She lifted her burning eyes to his, “Sire, thou hast denied me the one thing I desire. But grant me one boon. Give me tomorrow with all my old power. That is all I ask.”

  He hesitated and looked beyond her. The sky had lightened. A faint rosy light appeared in the gloom. It seemed a good omen.

  “Take it. It is thine.”

  31

  The Empress Salustra’s abdication was a simple affair. “It is apparently the will of the people that we abdicate the throne of Atlantis and that the Emperor Signar be crowned in our stead, with the two mighty nations joined into one. We hope that the people will prosper under the new reign and will accord the Emperor their devoted allegiance, striving, with him, to create a new order worthy of Atlantis.”

  The message bore the Empress’ seal.

  The fickle public now began to question their own lack of support for Lazar’s cub. Women began to weep, men to give vent to noble sentiments. Lazar was emotionally remembered. But it was too late. Salustra, philosophically committed, cared nothing for the changing sentiment in her behalf. “To protest against the rise of Signar,” she told Mahius, “is like protesting against the rising of the sun. I have had my day. And now it is his.”

  But her sun had not quite receded. She prepared to use her one last day of power swiftly.

  In the morning, after a restless night, she laid her hand on Creto’s bowed head. “Thou lovest me still, Creto? Then do my last will. I bow to the inevitable. But private betrayal calls for private vengeance.” She paused, fixing him with piercing eyes. “The one I loved most turned on me. Signar would still have overcome. But it is the desire that I cannot forgive. Dost thou understand, Creto?”

  The Prefect looked at her steadily. “Thou dost mean thy sister, the Princess Tyrhia, Majesty?”

  She moved her head slightly, noncommittally. “There are others as well. But first, thou knowest that Signar hath accorded me full power for this day.” She withdrew a vial from her robe, a vial not quite full of a sparkling red fluid. “Thou wilt take this at once to Jupia, my High Priestess, with my compliments. And thou wilt remain with Jupia until she hath drunk of this vial.”

  She gave Creto a roll of parchment. “In it Signar decrees that all my commands be obeyed this day.”

  The Prefect took the vial from her hand, rose, and saluted. “For thee to command is for me to obey,” he said quietly.

  Salustra flashed her old, languid smile. “And thou wilt return immediately,” she said.

  When Creto had gone, she fell into a reflective silence. There were none of the accustomed callers, no courtiers, friends, clients, Senators, Nobles. Today the great dim halls yawned emptily, except for the soldiers under orders from Signar to watch the Empress closely.

  But she was not to enjoy her unaccustomed solitude for long. The curtains parted, and Signar entered, unexpected and unannounced. At his appearance, Salustra rose, swaying a little from strain and weakness. She was no longer wearing Lazar’s pendant, as if she had no further use of it. She caught the arm of her chair, then recovered quickly.

  “Nay, Salustra,” said Signar. “Thou art still the Empress today, rise not for me.” He gave her his hand and assisted her into her seat.

  A humorous smile touched her pale lips. “I have been thinking, Sire, that thou must ask my pardon for a breach of hospitality.”

  “And thou—” he smiled “—for attempting to send me to my ancestors.”

  She laughed softly, shaking her head. He had the impression that she was not laughing at his remark but at her own thoughts. “Thou dost not ask what are my intentions toward thee, lady,” he said, after a moment.

  “I am not interested,” she said with a shrug.

  “But I am,” he said firmly. Again silence fell between them. “Are thy commands being obeyed implicitly?” he asked at last.

  She inclined her head.

  “Believe me, lady,” he said, taking her hand, “I feel naught but compassion for thee—”

  She snatched her hand from his. “Thou hast everything, my lord?”

  He nodded silently. “Thou art satisfied?”

  “I am, Salustra.”

  “Then, my lord, spare me thy pity.”

  She turned from him and fell once more into a detached silence. Signar sat for a few minutes, then with a shrug of his shoulders retired awkwardly without saying anything more. My presence, he thought bitterly, is like the grave to her, and yet I want only to see her alive and happy—at my side.

  She sat thus for an hour, until Creto, his face flushed, stood before her with a nervous glitter in his eye. “It is done, Majesty,” he cried. “She resisted the suggestion but I made the alternative seem less pleasant, and so she finally drank, cursing thee with her last foul breath.”

  She laid her hand on the Prefect’s arm and fixed her hypnotic eyes upon his face. “And now,” she said, “go thou, Creto, to the Princess Tyrhia’s apartments. Thou hast the decree of Signar. Gain admission without delay. And then,” dropping her voice to a whisper, “thou wilt bring her to me.” The Prefect trembled and his face turned the color of new parchment.

  “Majesty—” his voice faltered “—I implore thee …” Salustra smiled wanly. “It is not what thou thinkest. Go to, Creto.”

  32

  The slaying of Jupia jarred the city to its sanctimonious core.

  Ganto and Siton reported the savage humor of the people to the Emperor. Strongly, they counseled that Signar deliver up Salustra to the justice of the city. “Who k
nows but that the people may refuse to accept thee if thou dost condone this blasphemy?” said Ganto. “Deliver her to her own people and they will love thee for it.”

  Signar glumly sent his guards for Salustra. She entered calmly. Her quiet glance disdainfully passed over the group standing behind the Emperor. He did not rise as she stood before him.

  “Thou hast murdered thy religious leader,” he said accusingly.

  “I murdered the treacherous exploiter of my people,” she answered evenly.

  “Her death cries out for vengeance,” he said.

  She smiled. “Kill me then.”

  Signar stirred in his seat impatiently. “Thou mightest have murdered a thousand others and no hand would have been raised against thee. But the murder of a High Priestess, a representative of the gods, it is indefensible.” As she made no answer, he looked at her with increasing sternness. “The people cry for thy death. But I shall declare that Jupia was murdered without thy knowledge by Creto, who wished only to defend thee.”

  She smiled faintly. “And I shall deny it, Sire.”

  He rose with an oath. “And I shall declare thee mad, and by the gods, I believe thou art mad!” Still smiling, she bowed her head. His frowning eyes commanded hers. “If I turn thee over to thy people they will inflict the vilest shame upon thee before they allow thee to die in torment. Does the prospect please thee?”

  She recoiled the least bit. The soul that could endure death with equanimity could not endure shame.

  “Grant me a swift and speedy death now, my lord,” she whispered.

  He thrust her from him angrily, and at that gesture her old pride came back and her figure stiffened.

  “Send for the woman who may watch over her,” Signar said aloud to Siton. The general left the chamber and soon returned with a weeping Brittulia. “Take thy mistress to her apartments, woman,” said the Emperor, “and see that she does herself no mischief.”

  Salustra looked at him defiantly. “I still have thy word that my wish shall be command for twenty-four hours, and twelve hours still remain by my timepiece.”