Free The Romance of Atlantis by Taylor Caldwell Page B

tomorrow?”
    Mahius’ gray brows contracted in deep thought.
    Salustra spread out her hands with a careless gesture. “I would like thee to come to my apartments for a few moments. These children will not miss us.”
    She would have risen had not her eye suddenly been caught by another’s. A young man, of twenty-seven or eight, perhaps a trifle younger than herself, was peering at her intently over the brim of a goblet, from the far end of the table. She had never seen him before. As their eyes held, she saw a finely molded head and sensitive blue eyes. As she gazed at him, he put down the goblet slowly, revealing a straight, sculptured nose and a strong, yet delicate mouth. Her eye quickly took in the sturdy throat, wide shoulders, bare, sinewy arms and artistic hands. She studied him with a sense of growing excitement, and he returned her gaze breathlessly, yet with an air of confidence. She looked again at his face, and he smiled, inclining his head respectfully. He had an air of distinction so different from the youth of Lamora.
    Mahius had been watching this little drama with a sense of weariness. He looked at the young man and frowned.
    Salustra leaned back in her chair. A faint smile touched her lips. Her breast rose quickly with quickened breath. She was herself again.
    “That, radiant Majesty, is a cousin of Cicio, King of Dimtri,” anticipated Mahius in a dry voice. “He beseeched me only this morning to request an interview for him. He is a poet of great renown in his country, and he seeks thy patronage, knowing thou art a devotee of the arts. His name is Erato.”
    Salustra nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on the poet, who was now smiling quizzically. He lifted his goblet to his lips again, and on his hand a great ruby, like a ribald eye, winked brightly at her. Salustra smiled. “He must remain for the later banquet, Mahius. We are always willing to serve Poetry, especially when she hath so gallant and handsome an advocate.”
    Salustra now rose, and the startled guests rose with her. She made a gesture with her jeweled hand. “We shall return,” she said and glided from the chamber, followed by the old minister. The poet smiled, and nervously drummed on the table with his fingers.

6
    Far below lay the city. The streets were veiled in a yellowish gloom through which the lofty domes and tall pillars gleamed grotesquely in the obscure moonlight. It was a city of illusion, its distant confines hidden by the thick curtain that hung over the city like a pall. The air was hot, motionless, languid, causing men to breathe laboriously in a depressed atmosphere and the animal life to scurry about in aimless apprehension.
    Mahius, wondering at this sudden conference, glanced furtively at the Empress. Her profile held the eye with its pride and strength. She began to speak uncertainly, in a low voice, as though in a dream. “Wert thou ever afflicted with this strange emotion, Mahius? I am not a fanciful woman, or a morbid one. But I feel an awful sense of fatality upon me; the world has receded into unreality and illusion. I am a shadow moving amongst shadows.”
    Mahius was silent for a moment, and then he replied quietly: “I have felt so often myself. Life fluctuates, flows, ebbs, comes from the shadows and returns to them. Only the gods remain, ever present and eternal.”
    Salustra gave a weary gesture. “Bah! Gods! To think that in this world today, this ribald, jeering and cynical world, there should be some that believe that the great Unknown has cognizance of us! Only the frail, the feeble, the cowardly can have such faith. Faith is the trademark of the pusillanimous. Unable to fight life adequately, they feel the need of a supernatural ally, compelled to encase themselves in armor against a predatory world; otherwise raw and violent life would be unendurable. Some armor themselves with faith, and hide behind the shadowy image of the gods. Some encase themselves in philosophy, and look with a tranquil