The Romance of Atlantis (16 page)

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.

Salustra stretched out her hand with a gesture of command. Then her hand fell helplessly to her side. Slowly her gaze moved to Signar. Signar dropped his chin in his hand, and watched with an air of amused interest.

“Is this the approved approach in Althrustri?” she asked in suppressed rage.

Signar turned to her with assumed surprise. “Thou art displeased?” he exclaimed ironically.

Salustra flushed. “Order thy savage to release that woman.”

“It displeases thee?” he repeated, with a smile.

She stared at him, the muscles twitching in her cheeks. “As do thee,” she said quietly.

Signar waved at his general. “Siton!” he commanded sternly.

The burly giant dropped his prey and started to his feet. Signar made a curt gesture, and the man, his face flushed with wine, obediently backed off and disappeared into the shadows.

Salustra rose, and all Atlanteans rose with her. Signar continued to sit and smile as though at some private jest. Salustra gazed at him, and he returned her gaze evenly, his eyes dancing with unconcealed irony. She held up a hand. “The reception for our distinguished guest is ended. All are dismissed.”

16

Signar stood upon the terrace outside his apartments. A faint breeze stirred his hair. Here, in Atlantis, he found what he had always soberly sought: beauty, refinement, delicate glory. He thought of Althrustri and its bleak barrenness and felt secretly ashamed. The vital blood of his own country would pour through the decaying veins of Atlantis. Both would gain. There would be one mighty empire. From the marriage bed of barbarian Althrustri and dying Atlantis would arise a new world, full of vitality, beauty and dignity.

His mind was alive with ideas. He laughed as a vision of Salustra drifted before his mental eye. Her courage and resourcefulness stirred his admiration, and her beauty formed a constant image in his mind. As he thought of the Empress, Signar began to pace quickly up and down the terrace. Though he was a man of heroic proportions, his step was light and springy. Some forty Althrustrian summers had taken their toll, but he had the animal vitality of the barbarian at an age when dissipated Atlanteans were already growing weary.

He ceased his pacing abruptly. At the end of the terrace, where a broad marble staircase with wide steps and carved balustrades led down into the gardens, he had seen a white shadow move from the cloistered dimness of the palace and emerge upon the colonnade. He saw, by the pale and uncertain light, that it was a woman. Moreover, he saw that it was Salustra. She was in a transparent white gown, and her unbound hair cascaded in tawny waves to her knees.

She seemed to hesitate. She approached the stairway, then leaned against a pillar. She stood in profile before Signar, and the cool wind, ending the oppressive heat of the day, lifted her hair and tumbled it about. Unconscious of any other presence, she stood with bowed head in an attitude of dejection. She fixed her gaze upon the livid sky and her lips moved as though she prayed.

“Oh thou most terrible Sati, if thou art, hearken unto my prayer. To thee only would I confess that I am sore afraid. Last night I sat among my people and smiled in the face of ruin. I have hated many of them, but now I have felt their spirit upholding me, gallantly, because I am their queen.” She groaned, keeping her eyes to the sky. “Oh, thou great Unknown, to which man hath ever prayed, hearken unto me! Whatever thou art, be thou whatsoever thou mayest be, listen unto my first prayer to thee! Help me to save Atlantis!” She was silent a moment, then laughed bitterly. “Have I fallen so low that I must pray to a nebulous hypothesis for help?” She clenched her hands slowly, and her nostrils dilated. “Nay, as ever, Atlantis is my strength, and I hers. We need no other.”

Hearing all this, Signar smiled. Having bent forward not to miss anything as Salustra moved, the Emperor now fell back into the shadows. She began to walk slowly down the stairway. At the foot of the stairs she paused and looked about her. Signar stared. For from the shadows emerged another figure, that of a young man. Signar, with a muttered oath, saw that it was Erato.

The poet fell to his knees before the Empress and brought her hands to his lips, kissing them over and over. She bent and pressed her lips to his head. He cried out passionately. “Ah, Salustra, tell me thou art not angered with me!”

As she sighed, Erato, taking courage, rose and took her in his arms. Signar stiffened and laid his hand upon his sword, but before he could make a move, the two, speaking softly, strolled arm in arm toward a cluster of trees and disappeared.

Signar waited a moment, then leapt down the stairway after them. He slipped from tree to tree, straining his vision in the night. The trees emptied suddenly into a large clearing. Signar, stepping carefully, saw that Salustra was now sitting on a small marble seat. Erato was kneeling beside her in an attitude of supplication. “Salustra,” the young man was pleading. “Fly with me to Dimtri. My cousin, the King, will receive thee with reverence and respect.”

Salustra ran her fingers through the young man’s tousled hair. “And knowest thou what would happen? If thy King gave me shelter, Signar would crush little Dimtri in the hollow of his hand.”

The light faded from Erato’s face, and his head fell upon his breast.

“Look not so despondent,” she said more lightly. “All is not lost. The strongest ship is helpless without its pilot.” She rose abruptly and shivered a little. Through the mists, as day broke, the white columns and domes of Lamora started to take shape and the earth awoke.

Signar lurked behind the trees as Salustra and Erato, clasping each other’s waists, walked slowly past him.

“Worry not about Signar,” she said. “His days are numbered.”

Signar, concealed by the thick shrubs, had heard every word.

17

The Empress sat upon her throne in the Council Chamber, arrayed in her robes of state. Beside her sat Tyrhia, still shaken from the previous night’s experience. And behind Salustra stood Mahius, older and more bent over than ever.

As the minutes passed, Salustra lightly conversed with her sister and her minister. They were waiting uneasily for Signar. Finally, there came the sudden high note of a trumpet. The great bronze doors swung open, and Signar entered with his general, Siton, and his minister, Ganto. He moved toward the Empress and, without kneeling, kissed the hand she extended.

She regarded him in silence for some moments. “We need waste no time in elaborate and meaningless ceremony, my lord,” she said. “Let us be frank.”

She casually lifted a roll of parchment and studied it with an air of great interest. “I have from thee, my lord, an offer of marriage. Is it not so?”

Signar bowed again. His eyes gleamed as though he were inwardly amused.

Salustra rerolled the parchment and gave it to Mahius.

She leaned on the arm of her throne and regarded Signar with an air of candor. “It is unnecessary for me to express my surprise and gratitude,” she said quietly. “I am frankly overwhelmed.”

Signar’s smile broadened. “In other words, lady, thou dost refuse.”

“I am unworthy to be thy Empress,” said Salustra gently. “I am no longer young. Nigh on thirty summers have passed heavily over me. I am old in the ways of the world, and not untouched by it. There are fairer and nobler than I.”

“We promised to be frank,” interrupted Signar softly. He came closer to the Empress, placed a foot on the lower step of the throne and rested his elbow upon his knee. He smiled up into Salustra’s eyes, and under his steady regard she flushed.

“I am telling thee frankly my reasons for declining such an honor.”

Signar continued to regard her intently. “Thou hast something beyond that.”

Salustra gave Tyrhia her hand, and the two women rose. Tyrhia’s golden hair had been braided with pearls and lay upon her white neck in shining clusters. Her yellow lashes half hid eyes of the palest blue, and her robe modestly revealed the virginal swell of her bosom.

“I offer thee my sister, the Princess Tyrhia, in marriage, my lord,” Salustra said simply.

Signar turned and studied Tyrhia with the same interest with which he might have inspected a slave girl in a public marketplace. His glance moved from her small and lovely face to her throat and bosom, and lingered over the gentle swell of her hips, then moved slightly as though to obtain a better perspective. Tyrhia visibly shrank. The birthmark on the Empress’ cheek turned a dark crimson, but she showed no sign of emotion.

“And what will be the dowry of the Princess?” asked Signar with a mocking air.

Salustra inclined her head. “With her, in trust for her children, she will bring Atlantis.”

“In trust?” he said doubtfully.

“I will bequeath Atlantis to thy son, my lord. More, not even thou canst ask.” The flush had faded from Salustra’s face, leaving her pale.

Signar clasped his hands lightly on his knee, then smiled and made a profound obeisance. “Lady, I understand thee well. Thou dost fear the absorption of Atlantis by Althrustri, and so refuse my offer for thyself. Is it not so?”

Salustra’s lips parted, but before Signar’s mocking regard she fell into silence.

Again his eyes subjected Tyrhia to a thorough inspection. Then he bowed again. “If I should refuse, what then, Majesty?”

As Salustra shrugged her slim shoulders, Signar slowly and easily mounted the steps of the throne and took Tyrhia’s trembling hand. Salustra moved slightly, but in no other way betrayed a loss of composure. “I accept the Princess Tyrhia as my bride,” he said quietly.

The blue gloom broke into scattered fragments of laughter and relief. Mahius leaned against Salustra’s throne. He saw Signar kiss Tyrhia’s pale cheek, saw Salustra’s smiling urbanity, heard her murmuring something. His own hand was seized by Ganto, who affected to be highly delighted. He watched Signar courteously lead Tyrhia from the chamber, followed by his minister and the general, and then he and Salustra were alone.

The Empress sank into her seat again. She leaned her forehead upon the back of her hand and closed her eyes. Mahius knelt beside her and kissed one limp hand that lay upon her knee. “Thou hast won, Majesty,” he said.

She lifted her hand. “I do not trust him,” she murmured. “He is too crafty. I followed his thoughts through dark caverns of guile. I shall never feel safe, not even if he marries Tyrhia.”

“But he hath accepted the Princess,” said Mahius. “Is not that what thou didst desire? And in accepting her, he accepted thy conditions. Thou hast surely won.”

She regarded him steadily, her face grim and very pale. “Nay,” she said simply. “I have lost.”

18

The festivities that marked the engagement of Signar and Tyrhia were unequaled in the history of Atlantis. The streets about the Palace were teeming with throngs anxious to catch a glimpse of the betrothed. The mist was forgotten.

And in that Palace, amid all the gaiety, beyond all that noise and uproar, a man and woman smiled, moved about graciously and kept their thoughts to themselves.

On the third day after the betrothal, Mahius was summoned by the Empress. It was a gray day. The great sea was liquid steel, heaving uneasily under a pale sky. The mountains were hidden in glowering banks of purple, the city shrouded in a stifling fog that seemed thicker by the day Mahius found Salustra alone in her chamber. She barely glanced up as the old man entered. She motioned him to approach the table and a huge map spread out before her. Never had she seemed so much like her father to the minister. Her manner was intent and sure, her hand steady. As he stood by the table, she moved a light forward so that he might better see the map.

“Mahius,” she said abruptly, “how many of Althrustri lineage are there in Lamora, including those born in Atlantis?”

“The population of Lamora is seven million,” he said gravely. “Of that number there are one million native Althustrians and children of Althrustrians born in Atlantis.”

She pushed the map from her. “So now we reap the result of unrestricted immigration! One in seven! And does the same ratio extend throughout Atlantis?”

He shook his head. “No, through the western and more southern provinces the population is almost purely Atlantean. It is only along the east coast, and in the thickly populated cities, that this dangerous ratio exists. Overall, I would estimate a nationwide ratio of ten percent.”

“Ten percent,” she repeated sardonically. She rose and began a fevered pacing through the chamber, muttering to herself as she paced.