The parvis of the old temple, as vast as a public square, had not seen such a crowd for a long time. The throng overflowed it by some distance, occupying every uncovered spot from which, by chance, even a fraction of the peristyle was perceptible. In silent and empty Atlantis, all labor had ceased; the port was abandoned, the streets were deserted; from the entirety of the neighboring countryside, bands of peasants were hastening under the torrid sun.
No event in human memory had stirred the curiosity of the Atlanteans to this degree. The pomp of the ceremonies, the splendor of the processions and the strangeness of the spectacle would have promised to make the horror forgotten, if the horror itself, common to all sacrifices, had not formed for many of them the irresistible attraction. Today, in fact, the return of the vernal season, was to open the series of immolations; the rumor had run around that an extraordinary number of victims would be slaughtered: not only criminals and miserable slaves but individuals of the highest status. The rumor came from no one knew where, but only found greater credence because of it.
Interest was, moreover, multiplied a hundredfold by the place and circumstances of the torture. For the first time, since its origin, the cult of the clement gods was about to be dispossessed, replaced in the most venerated of its sanctuaries by the bloody adoration of the cruel gods. It was the supreme triumph of Gold and Iron.
That was, for the majority, a great sadness, and for some a subject of violent indignation, but which very few expressed other than in hushed voices, between sure friends, far from any suspect ear. Everyone knew that spies were numerous, their reports gladly welcomed, that the vigilance of the priests was ever active and their rancor implacable.
The foremost nobles of Atlantis had sent their servants at daybreak to reserve the best places, in the shadow of the temple itself or the clumps of trees surrounding the parvis. Ingenious artisans had disposed shelters, stages, multicolored tents and simple parasols. Merchants of fruits, cakes, fresh water and iced beverages in snow-shrouded bottles were installed on the edges, or circulated through the crowd.
Later, a company of guards had arrived to be deployed, reserving a central space and the wide passage necessary to the processions. A confused rumor, a subtle dust-cloud and acrid scents mingled with violent perfumes rose from the mass that was becoming denser by the minutes. Up above, in the stainless azure, the dazzling sun floated, pouring down a heat tempered by a light breeze, a customary benefit of the season.
In spite of that relief, the impatience grew. At first, the people were contented by the spectacle offered to them, with the thousands of dissimilar and variegated costumes characteristic of the races, conditions and tastes of their possessors. Long floating veils, dyed scarves, tightened tunics, bare torsos, bronzed, bright faces, bearded or glabrous, shaven or hairy heads coiffed in plumes, bark, woven grass or garlands of flowers formed at a distance a kind of changing tapestry in trenchant colors of infinite shades, with large pleats abruptly hollowed out by the arrival of some rich litter whose porters opened a way with forceful thrusts of shoulders and elbows, and sometimes sticks, paying no heed to the maledictions whose echoes swelled behind them, propagating in waves of anger or suddenly dying down, changed into cries of joy and dispute under a rain of coins thrown out at random.
Those various incidents, the competitive splendor of the carriages, the greater or lesser popularity of illustrious families and their representatives, occupied minds and tongues for a while, but the narrowing shade of the walls, the heavier heat and the stifling calm of the atmosphere now announced the hour appointed for the beginning of the ceremonies, and the center of the parvis remained empty. The deserted peristyle, the silent temple, the closed doors, and the external altar from which no smoke was rising, gave an impression of solitude, strange in the face of that feverish crowd, impatient for the promised spectacle.
Finally the strident sound of brass instruments, the dull rumble of sacred drums and the prolonged vibration of gongs announced the approach of the first cortege. All heads were raised, all gazes fixed on the extremity of the free space, where the road, by virtue of an abrupt bend, only permitted new arrivals to be seen at the moment of their emergence.
A company of mounted guards arrived first. The steel helmets, coats of burnished mail, cloaks and sashes of embroidered silk, the weapons glittering with gemstones, the beauty and proud step of the horses caused a frisson of admiration to pass through the crowd. All Atlanteans of free status could be summoned, in certain circumstances, to the Queen’s standard, and although the warrior caste alone furnished the officers, the masses were avid for military spectacles and always ready to acclaim them.
Behind the guards came the temple musicians. Their trumpets of different dimensions, some taller than the players, each sounded three distinct notes, according to the mouthpiece and the force of breath, and the dimensions were calculated in such a way as to produce all the chords. The drums, some almost flat and others three cubits long and carried by two men, were taut snakeskin. Everything was effaced, however, by the sinister note of the gongs, struck at measured intervals with a special stick and in a certain expert fashion, with a very complicated artistry. First there was a sullen growl, like distant thunder, then a stridency of metallic bars on a chariot launched at a gallop, and then an indefinable, almost human plaint, a gasp that swelled, filling the extent, vibrating in the depths of the entrails, which ceased abruptly, like the cry of distress of a precipitate victim.
The other instruments—harps, viols and flutes—were in the hands of servants of the temple, preceded by a host of servants in varied costumes bearing the attributes of the cult: lighted torches, bronze kettles, perfume vases, jars of water, wine and oil, banners, tents, parasols reserved for the dignitaries of the sacerdotal hierarchy, metal ensigns representing real or fabulous animals, emblems of Scourges or Forces. The musiciennes followed, mingled with dancers, almost all of them, in any case, trained in both arts. Their adornments, coquettishly severe, were simultaneously a homage to the gods and a temptation for mortals. Narrow tunics molded the supple bodies, uncovered the arms and shoulders, half-revealing firm contours.
The prettiest, simply surrounded by airy fabrics, allowed the splendor of their nudity to be divined though a milky transparency. Those who were not taking part in the concert or mingling their voices with it carried baskets of defoliated flowers, strewing them by the handful over the road that the priests and idol-bearers were about to tread, or, swinging cassolettes, threw perfumes on to the hot coals, whose vapor, in floating spirals, caused the air embalmed with their effluvia to sparkle.
Immediately thereafter came the combined images of Gold and Iron, reductions of colossi erected in front of the palace of the ancient kings to either side of the sacrifice stone. Hollow, and scarcely surpassing ordinary human stature, they nevertheless constituted a heavy burden, on their cedar-wood and sandalwood stretcher, for a dozen vigorous priests.
They were not separated; it would have been necessary, every time the road narrowed, for one to go on ahead, at the risk of annoying the other and provoking greater misfortunes. Furthermore, the two divinities represented a couple, Iron being represented as a robust warrior and Gold clad in the attributes of the other sex, although its form, of a hesitant and perverse grace, could equally well have been that of an ephebe. Mysterious symbols linked that double nature, but in the everyday rites of the cult Gold was revered as a feminine power, the wife and companion of Iron.
Four priests of high rank came next, and, under a silk awning embroidered with multicolored plumes with the gleam of gemstones, Nohor himself, in the dazzling costume of the supreme sacrificer, with a tiara on his head and a gold plaque on his breast, both encrusted with splendid gems, a purple tunic over his shoulders and, above it, the pontifical stole distinctive of his dignity.
It was an ample vestment, so long that it would have trailed three paces behind if little children had not held it up. Its fabric, comprise entirely of down, scarcely equaled the thickness of the finest linens, and surpassed them in lightness. The bird that furnished its substance was only found on the harshest crests of Bol-Gho, at the limit of the eternal snows. Its skin was sold for four times its weight in gold. Only the nobles of the highest caste, the chiefs of the army and the princes of the priesthood had the right to trim their garments with it. Artisans of hereditary skill and untiring patience wove it piece by piece into a kind of pale pink velvet in which the slightest creases were nuanced with sapphire, ruby, emerald, liquid gold or molten silver.
Behind Nohor, the armed servants, the sacrificers and the victims were amassed.
The former carried hatchets in their belts, two javelins in their left hand, and long leather whips in their right, with which they regulated the march of the captives, a lamentable troop of mingled slaves and criminals, the majority stupefied by terror, a few affecting a grim scorn for the life they were about to lose. Women and barely nubile virgins were sobbing, or smiling vaguely, indifferent, for neither age not sex fund mercy before the altar. On the contrary, youth and beauty heightened the glamour of the sacrifice. Even indocile temple maidservants did not escape.
All hope was not, however, forbidden to those wretches. Their number might surpass the demands of the gods, who only revealed themselves in the course of the ceremony by signs drawn from the agony of opened entrails. Some could return to the ergastules, perhaps recover their liberty. The approach of the knife was sometimes only a means of breaking the ultimate resistance of avarice or modesty. Then too, that uncertainty, suspended until that last minute over each one’s fate, added to the interest of the spectacle, which the people followed breathlessly.
The victimizers were bare-chested, a fibrous loincloth around the hips, their coarse hair braided and hanging over their shoulders; each had a long, slightly curved dagger, sharpened on both sides, attached to the left wrist, in a leather sheath, the point reposing in the armpit. Their prompt skill could spare suffering, ensuring the condemned a rapid death; but they did not always want to, and their cruel ingenuity was able, at need, to contrive tortures as atrocious as they were varied.
The file had scarcely concluded when a new fanfare, brisk and brief, announced the approach of the royal cortege. A company of palace guards similarly formed the head, some of them only equipped with short clarions, to measure the pace and transmit orders, soldiers rather than musicians. Behind them came a numerous troop of high-caste warriors, whom the habitude of military exercises permitted to move gracefully and without confusion in a restricted space. The magnificence of their garments and weapons was already awakening the acclamations of the crowd, but silence was suddenly established, all respiration suspended and all bodies immobilized in the dazzle of a sovereign apparition.
One might have thought her a third idol, raised like the other two on the shoulders of twelve porters, but alive, radiant with her own light, and so beautiful that al the splendors that surrounded her, shiny metals, sparkling fabrics, scintillating gems, the perfume of flowers and essences, the harmony of instruments and voices, the glory of her warriors, the adornment and beauty of her followers, seemed merely to be part of her aureole, an emanation of her omnipotence, a reverberation of her splendor.
A tissue similar to that of Nohor’s mantle, but more ample and perhaps of a more perfect handiwork, overflowed the uncovered litter in long folds, putting an aurora beneath her feet. Her nacreous throne rounded out in iridescent spirals, like a monstrous seashell. A light parasol sprang up from the back, expanded like a giant flower with a gold and emerald stem and a corolla of white silk on which a pearly dew trembled.
Her arms and shoulders were bare, her gray-blue tunic uncovering the adorable base of her throat, her hair fastened high above the nape; she bore on her forehead not a woman’s jewel but the diadem of the ancient kings of Atlantis, a snake with alternate rings of tawny carbuncles and somber sapphires.
Beneath and around her huddled her familiars, the eunuchs and the female musicians The mandoras, the large harps and the flutes mingled brief harmonies with the vapor of cassolettes, to the sway of palms and the snow of petals thrown in handfuls. But everything disappeared; no one saw anything but Her: her gaze, her smile, the tip of her foot protruding from her robe, the vermilion sunset of her hair, the divined pulse-beat in her temples, the calm and rhythmic swell of her bosom beneath the fabric.
It was the first occasion, since immemorial times, on which the Queen of Atlantis had been so close to her people, allowing herself to be contemplated thus. Nohor’s predecessors would not have tolerated it. The Immortal belonged to them; the vulgar profane could barely catch a glimpse of her. But the pontiff’s triumph was also unexampled. The definitive abolition of the rival religion, the placement of the ancient temple in his hands, the first bloody sacrifice on the altar of the gods of light, elevated him above all criticism, justifying on his part this complaisance toward his august ally.
After a lapse of a few minutes, however, when the satisfied admiration ceased to concentrate on one unique object, the gazes of the crowd went to a group of men lost at first in the royal retinue, but whom the deployment of the cortege, as it arrived in the cleared center of the square, now exposed to the view of everyone.
The secretly-pursued negotiations between the palace and the temple on the subject of Dhu Hern and his companions had ended by leaving their fate in suspense until the gods manifested their will. It appeared in the supreme convulsions of victims and the disposition of their entrails. If the auspices were found to be favorable, the sacrilege would be judged to be expiated, the heavens satisfied, and the strangers would be no more than guests. In the contrary case, they would be seized without giving them time to put themselves on the defensive.
Thus, at least, Nohor had presented the matter to his colleagues, assembled for the second time, and that solution, which did not offend either their interests or their pride, had won all votes.
In reality, Nohor himself being the interpreter of the presages, at least in case of difficulty, the result could be foreseen. But that circumstance, unknown to the crowd, where the decision of the sacred council would be spread at the last moment left intact for them the secret of destiny and the interest of the spectacle. The Gilt-Hermians had simply been told that certain propitiatory ceremonies that would lift the anathema incurred would assure them freedom of movement and a good welcome throughout the realm.
All of them were there, magnificently dressed and ornamented with the Queen’s gifts, but still reduced solely to the weapons they had brought with them or acquired in the course of the voyage. Argall and Maghée had, at least, supervised their maintenance; the cutting edges of copper of flint were carefully honed, the daggers, spears and arrows sharpened, the bowstrings newly tightened and their middle, where the arrow was notched, enclosed in a spiral of silk, an improvement learned from the Atlanteans, which delighted them with its novelty.
They had been ordered to march together and not to allow themselves to be isolated under any pretext. In any case, every facility had been given to them in that regard, their hosts in the palace, guards and servants having had time to appreciate the advantages of their camaraderie and the rudeness of their elbows.
For the people, their gigantic statue, the color of their hair, the whiteness of their skin, their bizarre weapons, their fabulous adventures, the tale of which had been flying from mouth to mouth for twelve days, and the youth and courage of their chief were as many subjects of wonderment. The uncertainty of their fate added some sympathy to that, principally among the women. More than one, especially among the maidservants of the temple, hazarded a timid sign in their direction, secretly promising offerings to the gods for their salvation.
Two paces from the royal litter, the little dancer Nizia, her eyes obstinately fixed, caused faults in all the movements of her quadrille by her distraction, and attracted severe reprimands. She was wearing the burnished gold clasp encrusted with sapphires and opals, which she had refused to sell, even though it was too rich for her condition. She kept it fixed to her tunic, a little to the left, in the cleavage of her breasts, and sometimes, one could have seen a tear glittering among the hard stones.
The bearers of the royal litter, with a single movement, bent their knees; the four feet with which it was equipped touched the ground.
Nohor advanced and bowed to the sovereign. With a nod of the head she accepted his homage and authorized him to speak.
He began: “I salute you, O Queen, in the presence of the gods. On their behalf I thank you.”
He had prepared his speech carefully, rounding out its sentences in advance. He listened to himself, proud of his eloquence and his triumph. The phrases stretched out, pompous and empty, recalling ancient opinions, forgotten controversies, attesting to philosophy and history. Attention wearied. Finally, he arrived at present matters, celebrated the grandeur and piety of the Queen, and the victory of Gold and Iron.
Adroitly, he was brief with regard to the arrival of the strangers and the sacrilegious murder of the Guardian of the Threshold. Detesting the newcomers, he avoided giving them any importance. The gods themselves, consulted, would decide what their fate would be. The altar of Argall and Soroé, too long abandoned to the vain ceremonies of the ancient cult, were about to receive the consecration of blood. The agony of the victims would be significant, and the disposition of their entrails decisive.
In a brief reply, Yerra approved. Servants approached to prepare the table of immolations and disperse the ashes of the sacred fire—but a voice resonated under the peristyle.
“Back, sacrileges!”
Ruslem was there, standing in his white robe with a simple golden clasp, his arms raised, a head taller than his short-legged rival, who was livid with rage and an unadmitted terror—for he was not entirely sure of the impotence of the ancient gods.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Many, who would not have dared to defend him openly, sympathized secretly and admired the courageous pontiff, indifferent to death.
The old man advanced, seeing aside the indecision of the servants with a gesture. His gaze, above all heads, sought the impenetrable irises of Yerra, encountered them, and could no longer turn away.
“I have begged you, O Queen, and I beg you again: spare your people and yourself this inexpiable iniquity.”
The young woman’s brows furrowed. The attentive Ortiz put his hand on the pommel of his sword, awaiting an order whose execution he would gladly have left to others—but the royal anger remained unexpressed. The response came, calm and benevolent, the divine mouth scarcely creased, terrible in its serenity.
“I cannot oppose myself to what the gods demand. But for you, my Father, I have only indulgence and respect. Do not oblige me, then to contradict you. Retire in peace, or come closer to me if you have something to say to me.”
It was the supreme invitation, understood by them alone. Evidently, the Queen still doubted his impotence to deliver the Sword to her, and at the price of the marvelous weapon, was renewing her offer of protection one last time.
It was in vain, however, that for three days he had been rereading and comparing the most secret pages of his family archives. One glimmer at the most—and so faint!—a vague indication of the substitution of one weapon for another…a kind of prophecy which perhaps concealed a warning.
He hesitated, but that kind of audience, accorded before everyone, only promised him an illusory respite, minutes when he needed days. What was the point?
“What could I say to you, O Queen? You know the justice of our cause. Whatever happens, it will survive. Is it not written: Should the sacred fire be extinguished, and the stones of the altar fall, dispersed, seek still beneath the ashes and the rubble for the salvation of Atlantis?”
He stopped, surprised by his own words, and the meaning that they had just taken on for him at the moment when he pronounced them. It was the precise passage on which chance had caused him to fall in the course of his recent research: a vague promise repeated a hundred times in different forms in the hymns and the rituals. At any rate, fatigue and anguish had ended up disturbing his mind. Glimmers of enlightenment had shone there, momentarily, leaving nothing after them but uncertainty and obscurity. For an instant, he now remembered, those lines had dazzled him like a flash of lightning; then, on rereading them, the impression had faded away. His memory had retained them, however, faithfully; and it was those that he had just repeated, almost without intending to, like an insignificant citation.
Nohor shrugged his shoulders, affectedly. Only the Queen had shuddered. Ruslem wondered whether the prodigious sagacity of the august initiate was about to penetrate the mystery more fully than himself. Ought he to dread that, or to hope for it?
But the illusion was already vanishing. Hazard alone had connected the texts. How likely was it that one of his predecessors, instead of the reliable hiding place in the crypts, had chosen to confide the priceless treasure to those few stones accessible to anyone, which a single blow of a pick could dislocate?
For a minute, the silence weighed heavily. The apprehension of the unknown rendered the crowd mute. The heat was becoming increasingly oppressive. The Queen was silent, her lips taut, her eyes immobile, seemingly waiting for another word—but the old man was at the end of his strength. Suddenly, he was seen to totter. A white figure was detached from the shadows at the back of the peristyle, ran toward him and sustained him, while Tang-Kor hastened to join them. With his help, Soroé succeeded in guiding her grandfather to the foot of a column and sitting him down on the jutting pedestal, bathed his temples with cold water.
There was a murmur of pity. The pure face of the young woman moved even those who were waiting to die.
Nohor was beginning to show signs of impatience. Anything that deflected attention away from him seemed an affront to his dignity, but he changed his mind, struck by the beauty of the virgin who was bending over thus, whom he was seeing for the first time.
He moved closer to the royal litter and pronounced a few words in a low voice, partly in the old language, which he mispronounced awkwardly.
Yerra seemed to hesitate. At that moment she noticed the attitude of Dhu Hern, leaning on his bow, turned toward the young priestess, as if ready to launch himself forward. Her irises paled. Her eyelashes, abruptly lowered, indicated consent.
“So be it!”
Nohor summoned one of his acolytes with a sign and whispered orders to him.
The temple servants, moved aside momentarily by Ruslem, surrounded the altar again. They had quickly scattered the ashes of the fire, and unsealed the bronze basket. That could not be completed, however, without taking out several stones, and stirring others. The sacrificial table remained rough. It would absorb the blood all the better for it.
The first victim was brought forward. It was a confessed murderer, a highway robber and the leader of a band. Short and thickset, muscled like an athlete, he had been promised a death without suffering, provided that he did not resist, for the mere appearance of a voluntary end doubled the value of the offering. He had been given figs to eat, which he was chewing in a tranquil fashion when one of the guards touched his shoulder. He nodded his head, swallowed the remainder of the pulp, spat out the skin and stretched himself out on the platform.
“Uh oh!” he said, with a gross laugh. “This is a poorly-made bed! Back home, we train the servants better.”
Four victimizers had seized him by the four limbs. A fifth, seizing him by the hair, tipped back his head. All of them pretended not to be employing any violence, simply aiding him to choose the best position in which to sleep. A sixth, standing obliquely, without looking at him, drew a large cutlass from its sheath, maintained along his left arm by a double leather bracelet.
The blade descended in a flash, and disappeared in a second into the throat, cut all the way to the vertebrae. The eyes swiveled, the jaws gaped, an abrupt convulsion sent the executioner holding the right leg sprawling three feet away; but with blood spurting out in floods, the strength and the life were exhausted; the breast swelled five or six times, aspiring and rejecting air through the wound, in a seething of red foam. Then frissons were seen to run beneath the bronze-hued epidermis.
As soon as the violence of the initial convulsions had died down, the sacrificers moved aside, leaving the body to place itself. If it turned over or fell to the ground, the presage was ominous—but the murderer remained on his back, one knee raised, his arms rounded. Had it not been for the open eyes and the gaping throat, one might have thought that he was asleep,
“The gods approve,” said Nohor.
The operator maneuvered his knife swiftly. The heart and entrails appeared. Two priests leaned over his ribs while their hands adroitly dug in and pulled back the flesh, parting the semi-transparencies. When they stood up, a satisfaction mingled with astonishment was visible in their faces.
From where he stood, Nohor interrogated them: “You have interpreted the signs?”
“We have interpreted the signs,” they replied, in unison.
“You are in accord?”
“We are in accord.”
“Speak.”
The older of the two took a step forward, raised his hand, and enveloped the Gilt-Hermians with a glance, who were mostly turning toward him visages devoid of benevolence.
“This is it: Strangers have come, handsome, of tall stature, redoubtable by their valor. We did not know who their gods are, and whether ours consider them as friends or enemies…in which case they would have ordered us to fight and exterminate them.”
The orator paused for breath. The worthy Fraam addressed his most benevolent smile to him, while caressing his taut bowstring with his finger. The first rows of spectators undulated slightly, and Nohor, at the risk of stepping on his mantle, sketched a backward step.
“However,” the observer of signs went on, “we did not want to decide anything without the advice of the Powers themselves. We have interrogated them as to what their desire might be. They have pronounced: the strangers will be our guests.”
Breasts breathed more freely. Dhu Hern bowed to the Queen, but his eyes immediately returned to the group formed by Ruslem, Soroé and Tang-Kor. The old man was reviving. The visible interest and compassion of the young chief had something filial about it.
“Is that all?” asked Nohor.
“Lord, that is not all. The signs are precise and concordant. The gods have chosen their part, a young virgin, beautiful and noble among all. The Guardian of the Threshold held her beneath its claw, but it pleased them to spare her. She will live to serve them, singing their praises and celebrating their mysteries. Other victims will give their blood.”
“Nohor turned to the Queen.
“You have heard, O Yerra?”
“I have heard. Bring Ruslem’s daughter here.”
Two servants hastened forward. Soroé, preoccupied with her grandfather, did not seem to have paid any attention to that exchange of questions and responses. However, she had not missed any of it. Brushing Nohor’s acolytes aside with a gesture, she bent her knee before her grandfather and brushed his hand with her lips.
“Permit me to leave you, my Father. I am being called away. I am obliged to obey.”
The old man had rediscovered a little of his strength. He tried to follow her, but she pushed him back gently.
“I beg you, my Father, only bless me. That is more valuable, for what I have to say.”
She spoke very simply, but with a singular resolution. Her grandfather caressed her hair with tremulous fingers, and sighed: “Go then, you whom I am unable to defend. Others, perhaps...”
Although he was standing up, his mind remained troubled. He thought about Illaz, and also about this Dhu Hern. In the slavery that threatened his child, he only wanted to see the respite obtained, the salvation still possible.
The young priestess advanced into the empty space, leaving behind her the bloody altar and the black idols of metal. She bowed to the Queen, and straightened again, modest and proud, seemingly ignoring Nohor.
“You summoned me, O Yerra. Here I am, ready to obey you.”
The sovereign rendered her salutation with a smile, and no announcement of any unexpected favor ever fell from a royal mouth with more melodious softness.
“It is not for me to give you orders. The gods have taken you under their protection. With your sisters, their other servants, you will sing their praises and celebrate their mysteries. The ranks of your companions will open to receive you. Their masters will be yours, will instruct you as they have been instructed. Adore and bless the immortal gods!”
Her raised hand, designating the musiciennes and the dancers, underlined with haughty disdain the irony of her atrociously benevolent speech.
The girl, without even blushing, ran her eyes over the miserable troop of courtesan priestesses. A few bold gazes challenged hers, but soon lowered, heavy with shame, only reading serene indulgence and compassionate pity there.
“I thank you, O Queen, for offering me a place among these. They are indeed my sisters, for suffering purifies like fire, and their misfortune is not their fault.”
The silence was one of amazement. A few servile bursts of laughter, trying to emerge, were stifled into sobs. The priests felt themselves struck in the plenitude of their power and the fullness of their pride by a penetrating dart, which remained in the wound.
Nohor bit his lips and dreamed of the joys of a difficult education, the spirit humiliated, the flesh chastised and submissive, expiating its rebellions to the profit of sensuality. Already, he could see the haughty virgin at his mercy, in the depths of the sacred gynaeceum, with the insurmountable triple enclosure, with walls as mute as the tomb. Later, tamed and pliant, she would be the jewel of the temple, the ornament of festivals: the living trophy of his victory; the most beautiful, the most noble, the most chaste flower of Atlantis, before all. But for him alone, her grace would blossom, her perfume would emanate, and her life would be lived at his feet.
It was a dream; the virgin had not finished.
“I thank you, but I want more. You will not reject my request, for I invoke your gods themselves, and what their priests call their commandments. They demand blood and the most precious: victims, and above all voluntary victims. I am sixteen years old; my race is the most illustrious in Atlantis; I have been carefully educated; I know nothing impure in myself.” She stopped, her cheeks ablaze, at the moment when she was doubtless about to say: I am beautiful.
It was not her pride that was speaking. She had her objective and did not say a single word more than she felt necessary; but the gazes fixed upon her, without diminishing her resolution, seemed to be burning her face. Her bosom swelled, her lips quivered. And before she had succeeded in mastering that momentary weakness, exclamations sprang forth, a tempest of cries, the furious compassion of multitudes
“No!”
“No!”
“Don’t finish!””
“Don’t seal the irrevocable!”
“Shut up!”
“Make her shut up!”
“Insensate, who wants to perish!”
Nohor himself sketched a gesture of protest.
“Young woman,” said Yerra, slowly, “remember that one word more will condemn you to death.”
She knew that, and the horror of the sacrifice. For an instant, silently, she collected herself, gathered her strength. Two tears trembled on her eyelashes and ran down her cheeks. Fraam, who almost understood the words exchanged, did not take his eyes off her, and while kneading the wood of his bow furiously, he growled in a low voice, after the fashion of bears. Prudently, however, Maghée kept silent, and Dhu Hern, their chief, was motionless, seemingly turned to stone.
“I have thought of that, O Queen; certainly, I would not have sought death. But the life that they want me to lead would be one of perpetual torture. I also know that in offering myself to this fate, I have the right to ransom many victims: all those who are waiting here, and others…as many as there are beads on the necklace with which I would soon be ornamented, and which will be returned to my father for his safeguard and that of his people.”
“That is your right—but you can still reflect.
“I will not be Nohor’s slave, nor the servant of his gods.”
“Don’t blaspheme!” said the humiliated priest. “The gods accept!”
It was the sentence without appeal. Nohor had hesitated; he regretted the living prey, but the insolence of the rebel was becoming a dangerous, intolerable example. The Queen’s silence ratified it.
Ruslem, exhausted by emotion and sleepless nights, had fallen, almost fainted, into Tang-Kor’s arms. He heard the voices, but distant, almost unreal, and the idea of the Sword, perhaps rediscovered, there, under the half-destroyed altar, mingled with them as if in a dream, now became a certainty. A few more stones shifted, dislocated and the divine weapon would appear, scintillating. He would seize it, surrender it, the pledge of Soroé’s salvation, the salvation of Atlantis—to whom? The Queen? No! To Illaz? But Illaz was far way…and there was also this Dhu Hern...
The latter emerged from his immobility at that precise moment. Throwing his bow over his shoulder, he stepped forward, and looked in turn at Soroé, Nohor and the Queen, as if uncertain to whom to address his speech. Finally, he decided, and, his brow slightly furrowed, in an almost severe voice, he said to the virgin: “Young woman, have you no other reason to die?”
She shivered, and seemed to discover his presence.
“Is that not enough, Dhu Hern? What would you have replied just now, if you had been offered life at the price of slavery and shame?”
“I would have drawn the sword,” the young chief declared, tranquilly, “and the response, unless I’m much mistaken, would have appeared sufficient to all. But don’t lower your head thus; my intention is not to wound you, be sure of it!”
“How could I suspect it, when I owe my life to you? If anything could make me regret it, it would be not having been able to show you my gratitude.”
“If you regret it, defend it. Can you not choose a champion to do battle for you? Do the Atlanteans not know that fashion of consulting the gods? Do they only know how to shed the blood of victims?”
A murmur went up among the nobles. That sort of proof was not unknown to them; it had once constituted an appreciated privilege of their caste.
“Perhaps the stranger will consent to let us honor our gods in our own way and in accordance with their will!” Nohor interjected, bitterly. “He did not complain about our fashion of interpreting the signs when we found them favorable to him.”
“And what if it had happened otherwise?” riposted the Northerner, fixing the augur with a stare that almost made him trip over, for the thought occurred to him that all the armies in Atlantis could not defend him, at arm’s reach, against the first gesture of irritation on the Barbarian’s part.
“Enough vain words,” he proclaimed, majestically, as soon as he felt relatively secure and certain of his equilibrium. “The Powers have accepted the offering! Their wait will not be prolonged. Ministers of ineluctable decrees, guide to the altar the virgin even times elect, whose fate makes her companions and ourselves sigh with envy.”
At that summons, two sacrificers came to place themselves by the young woman’s sides. Their mission was delicate, for they had to leave her all apparent liberty. So they spared her their contact to begin with, contenting themselves with watching her slightest movements. A great deal of self-composure was necessary, however, as the acolyte to the left had to place himself very close to Dhu Hern, whose hip his elbow brushed. The one on the right, remarking that detail, at first judged himself more favored, when, a double stride by the gigantic Fraam having placed him in an exactly analogous position, the two interpreters of the presages began to exhibit marks of unease.
The chief of the Gilt-Hermians turned to Yerra,
“You have welcomed me, O Queen, and I have become your guest. How can I not respect your gods when they say to me themselves: Be welcome! But surely, if they had condemned this young woman, they would not have allowed me to save her, since no mortal can struggle against the Immortals. And if it is true that the Guardian of the Threshold, in touching her with his claw, reduced her to the condition of a slave, I demand her as mine, for I vanquished the ravisher, and all that was his belongs to me. Deliver her yourself, then, or put her fate in my hands; I shall answer to you for its equity.”
He fell silent, folded his arms over his breast, and appeared to consider the cause won.
“What you are asking,” said Yerra, “is impossible.”
“You should reflect, O Queen. But if, truly, you cannot intervene, you will not be irritated if I do justice myself.”
His right hand fell upon the shoulder of the nearest sacrificer. The latter, with a howl of terror, ran away, seeking refuge at the foot of the royal litter. His colleague, seeing Fraam’s left hand sketch a parallel gesture, did not wait for the impact, and fled recklessly toward Nohor. The Gilt-Hermian, with a benevolent smile, extended his arm before the young woman and gently obliged her to move back. In a second, she found herself separated from her compatriots, surrounded by blond giants making guttural exclamations, with grimly debonair expressions.
Although the majority of the words spoken had escaped them, even the less intelligent had grasped the general sense of the scene: the beauty and the courage of the Atlantean virgin had won all hearts. Their chief, in any case, had long habituated them to not counting the enemies before men, any more than the stones in the road or the waves in the tempest. Rested, replete, their senses satisfied for twelve days, they were beginning to find the time dragging, insatiable for battles and adventures. This one had arisen unexpectedly: a desperate combat against an entire people! It would, at least, be an end worthy of them, a glorious entrance to the land of souls; or, if, by chance, they came through it, a fine tale to occupy the evenings one day, around the bright fires of Erm-gilt-Herm.
Even Maghée, for all his prudence, scarcely protested with a shrug of the shoulders. “After all,” he said, evaluating the strength of their enemies with a glance, “they’re scarcely twenty against one…not counting the priests, their servants or the people.”
“Let’s not allow ourselves to be surrounded,” said the man who was still called Dhu Hern. “Retreat to the temple!”
They had the advantage of conversing between themselves without being understood by the Atlanteans. The latter, initially stupefied, did not put up any obstacle to the indicated movement. A large area was open in front of the peristyle. The Northerners arranged themselves between the columns, their bows drawn, their arrows at eye-height. Each of them had twenty to launch, and as few shots risked being wasted, there might be a terrible carnage—but a resolute enemy would not give them time to empty their quivers. Fraam and two others, to absorb the shock if necessary, lodged themselves behind the altar, which thus formed a kind advance earthwork, covering them to the waist. Fraam thought that in case of a melee, the dislocated stones, four of which must weigh as much as a man, would make admirable projectiles.
“Hey, over there!” he shouted to the others. “You wouldn’t have a pick or a lever, by any chance?”
At those words, which Maghée translated into Atlantean, Ruslem loosened the embrace in which he had enveloped Soroé. The young woman, drawn and half-carried by her defenders, barely self-conscious, had found herself in her grandfather’s arms in the shelter of a column. The door of the temple, standing ajar, offered them a refuge, but without issue, unless they took refuge in the crypts. Neither of them gave any thought to that.
The old man, reanimated by the presence of all that he cherished, gathered his thoughts, momentarily confused. Nothing of what had just happened had escaped his senses, but its significance had been lost, drowned in the chimerical obsession with the Sword. Abruptly, the entire scene was revived in his mind—his child’s peril, the stranger’s intervention—and gratitude, admiration and renascent hope fused in religious ecstasy.
Now, he was sure of it; the gods were about to make themselves manifest, and sweep away their enemy with a breath. Already, that breath had passed over him, reawakening his memories, dissipating the veils. Twenty neglected, forgotten details, obscure texts, isolated traditions and insignificant remarks were revived and united in a luminous pattern, dazzling in its certainty.
Everything was explained: the deceptive inscription, and the crushing of his being just now, the vanishment of his thought. It had been necessary that he did not realize sooner! The Protectors had foreseen everything, including the failure of his courage; would he not, in fact, have surrendered the Sword to save Soroé? Now he sensed that he was the blind, inert instrument, irresistibly led, of the triumph of his cult and the deliverance of his people.
“The mutes’ tools!” he said to Tang-Kor, indicating with his hand the recess in the wall where the accessories of the quotidian service were kept.
The old slave opened the wooden panel and drew out the picks and levers abandoned by Yerra’s servants when they returned from their subterranean expedition. Ruslem ordered him to load them on to his shoulders.
Troubled by the resolution that she read in his eyes, Soroé placed her hand on his arm, trying to retain him, but he moved her aside gently.
“Stay here! Don’t leave the shelter of this column. Those whom we serve are protecting you, I’m sure of it. Nevertheless, it’s necessary not to tempt fate.”
His stature had stiffened. His face seemed to be illuminated. The virgin kept silent, docile. And like her, the Barbarians recognized and admired in the attitude of the priest a reflection of the majesty of the gods.
He crossed the empty space between the peristyle and the altar. Tang-Kor followed him, curbed by his burden. Fraam, turning his head slightly without losing sight of the adversary, saw them coming and greeted them with a smile.
“Good!” he said, doing his best to utilize his recent progress in the Atlantean language. “You’ve found what we need and brought it yourselves. Now you’d do well to go back as quickly as possible, for the storm won’t take long to burst, I imagine, and the place where we are is one of those where blows will rain down.”
“Young man,” said Ruslem, “give us a little space, I beg you.”
Slightly astonished, the worthy Fraam obeyed. The reinforcement of two old men seemed mediocre to him, but it was, after all, their affair.
At a sign from his master, Tang-Kor planted one of the levers in the interstice between two stones and stiffened his meager arms. The upper block, half-unsealed, lifted slowly.
“Well,” said the young giant, “I wouldn’t have thought the fellow so vigorous. At ten years old, I couldn’t have done better—but as we don’t have much time, we’ll give you a hand. Are you in, Kernik?”
At that question, formulated in the language of the people of Erm-gilt-Herm, one of his companions, following his example, put down his bow, the arrow ready notched, and seized one of the picks. The loose blocks began to leap from their cavities. They arranged them in front of them on the exterior edge as they went along, which was soon raised to shoulder level. They took care to maintain crenellations through which to fire. The emptied mass of the altar decreased in proportion.
Facing them, the Atlanteans were initially stupefied. The decision and audacity of the strangers surpassed their imagination. Alarm held sway over anger. This was how the heroes of legend acted—or, rather, the greatest hero of them all, Argall the invincible, inaccessible to fear.
Certainly, if these were only men, the issue could not be in doubt for an instant. The guards and the nobles alone represented twenty times their number, all of them better armed, and trained since childhood in handling swords. At a word from the Queen, thousands of warriors would come to their aid: an entire people. But were they really only men, these Barbarians? Did not the prodigious exploit of their chief attest that a supernatural protection extended over them, stronger than bucklers and armor? Did not ancient prophecies predict the victorious return of the gods of peace and light? Who could affirm with certainty that the day in question had not come?
Today, thousands in the crowd were waiting, hoping; and even many among the nobles, impatient with the yoke of the priests, would have greeted them without reluctance. Only a few, allied with priestly families, enriched by confiscations, and compromised by odious excess, were narrowly united with the temple party, constituting its true strength. The cruel gods were not popular; the dread of the scourges was the foundation of their power. They were only worshiped by virtue of terror.
Yerra’s guards were only loyal to her. Especially since her installation in the new palace, the ease of approaching her, her sovereign grace and the charm and mystery of her being had conquered them and penetrated them. They were devoted to her, not only as a corps under the empire of a severe discipline, but each one individually, in the secrecy of his heart. There was not one who would not, at a word from her, have gone resolutely to his death.
About heavenly matters and the opposition of the two cults, however, those young men hardly cared. Rich clothes, fine weapons, sparkling adornments, pleasurable intrigues with the musiciennes and courtiers, brilliant fencing matches in which defeat was only ever temporary and not lacking in consolations, and reckless expenditure whose account would eventually be settled by royal munificence or some rich marriage, were sufficient occupations for their thoughts and ambition.
The majority, former pupils of Nohor, retaining the painful memory of his rod, despised him cordially. The spectacle of his disappointment did not cause them any sadness; not one of them, of his own accord, would have risked the slightest drop of his blood to return Soroé to her executioners—but the audacity of the Barbarians offended their pride. The victory, of twenty against one, could hardly pass for glorious, but nevertheless risked, against such adversaries, being dearly bought.
Those thoughts, common to all, tormented Ortiz particularly. Jealous of the prestige of Dhu Hern, he had not been able to forget a certain wounding comparison. For a moment, he had even thought of taking up his challenge, content to pay with his life for the honor of such a combat before the eyes of his sovereign. The temper of his sword and his coat of mail seemed some compensation for his enemy’s advantages—but at the first movement he had made to request the necessary authorization, Yerra, divining his thought, had imposed silence on him.
The situation could not be prolonged, however. Nohor intervened in his turn.
“The strangers have pronounced their own condemnation, O Queen. Your warriors are burning to punish their insolence, to avenge the outrage to our gods. Would it not be appropriate for you to withdraw by some distance, to leave the field free for their valor and free them from concern for your person?”
“The blood of my warriors is precious,” said Yerra. “The strangers cannot escape their destiny. Instead of attacking them, we can wait. Hunger and thirst will soon oblige them to surrender or hurl themselves on to the points of Atlantean swords.”
“It is necessary, then, to postpone the sacrifice again?” protested the discontented pontiff. “Be careful that the patience of the gods does not run out and the people lose respect!”
In fact, appreciations were already being exchanged in the crowd that were unflattering to the royal troops. The peaceful citizens of Atlantis, once the initial surprise had passed, had promised themselves the rare spectacle of a battle to the death without any danger to themselves and much more interesting than the execution of the condemned. If it was necessary to go home without having seen anything, it would be a day truly wasted.
The swords remained in their sheaths, but the tongues did not remain inactive.
Meanwhile, Yerra reflected. She wanted to preserve her guards, on whom she could count, if necessary, against Nohor. Perhaps even more, she would regret the death of the strangers’ chief, that Dhu Hern resistant to her charms. To hold him captive in her hands she would have given half her treasures, and more—for she was sure that she could reconquer him, his caprice for the priest’s child forgotten, repentant and submissive, and worth an army in himself. The exhaustion of a siege and a favorable wound might lead the enchantress to that supreme victory, but in the fury of an immediate assault, there was no hope of taking him alive.
Thus she thought, in the midst of her quivering warriors.
Suddenly, there was a stir in the crowd, whose dense ranks opened reluctantly before a breathless man streaming with sweat. He could be heard panting, while fraying a passage with forceful jabs of his elbows: “Make way! Make way! A message for the Queen!”
At a word from Ortiz, a platoon of guards brought him to her, driving back the curious. He bounded into the open space and came to fall to his knees in front of the litter.
“N’ghaour!” said Yerra, recognizing one of her servants. “What is it?”
He was one of the usual couriers, who had left a few days earlier with orders for the district governors in the mountainous wooded regions of the north. His proven fidelity and reliable memory often won him verbal commissions, which he delivered exactly, without changing or comprehending anything.
“The one to whom you sent me dispatched me to you, O Queen, and these were his words...”
He drew closer, with the evident intention of only being heard by her, but his wheezing respiration betrayed him, and the syllables carried.
“Illaz has revolted with ten thousand vassals. He has proclaimed the virgin Soroé, daughter of the ancient kings, the legitimate Queen of Atlantis. The Sword of Argall is found, the cult of Gold and Iron abolished.”
A wave of stupor was propagated, inclining heads, carrying the news to the extremities of the square.
Nohor’s voice rose up too late, accusing the messenger of treason and demanding his execution. Yerra, slightly pale, signaled to him to be quiet, and summoned Ortiz to me closer.
“Finish it with the Barbarians. But if you can take Dhu Hern alive, you can choose your recompense.”
All the swords sprang from their scabbards. Brief commands rang out.
Behind the altar, Fraam and Kernik dropped their tools and picked up their weapons.