Nohor, standing on the green step in the middle of the immense staircase, a golden tiara on his head and the pontifical mantle over his shoulders, in long pleats of flame and gold, coughed in order to clear his throat, and his beautiful clear voice, replete with the pride of recovered power. To his right and his left, on ebony seats with incrustations of bronze and enamel, twenty-four of his colleagues, in crimson stoles, coiffed in tall black miters and shod in white sandals with broad violet straps, formed the supreme tribunal, whose sentences were without appeal.
Higher up, on the porphyry step, near the corner of the peristyle, Yerra was enthroned, the crown on her head, her feet on the royal carpet with auroral reflections, motionless, almost terrifying in her pride and beauty.
Behind her, Ortiz, with fifty of his guards, his sword bared, its gold and steel scintillating, was gazing disdainfully at two companies of armed temple servants forming the escort of the priest-judges, warriors of dubious quality who had not been seen anywhere at Lamb’ha. Today, however, forming a hedge between the lowest slab of the colossal perron and the nearby stone of sacrifice, they were deployed to maintain the unarmed crowd, where there was no lack of children or women, with an entirely soldierly insolence and the most martial brutality.
The immense square extending from the temple to the former palace of the kings, which had become, until further notice, the abode of the sovereign, was swarming with Atlanteans of all castes, but above all spectators of the popular classes, as one might expect on a day when the judgment of one of two queens, in the presence of her rival, by the sacred college and under the presidency of Nohor promised the multitude a spectacle simultaneously gratuitous and grandiose, as passionate as it was solemn.
That multitude, moreover, was prey to the most various sentiments, passing, from one group to another, without transition, from compassion to fury, and devotion to hatred. But the pity, and above all the devotion, scarcely dared manifest themselves in the most robust or the most courageous—who were not always the same—while the insults and cries of death rose up boldly, assured of the support of the power, under the relatively benevolent eye of the armed servants of the temple.
However, the principal defender of the restored regime did not appear, nor any of his officers or guards. Doubtless the concern for public security, all the great services to reconstitute and a thousand other cares must demand the attention and demand the presence of Illaz. The best-informed, however, claimed to add to those reasons one more decisive: a secret partiality for the accused, the repugnance of the generous victor to contemplate his captive enemy, humiliated and bowing her head beneath the inevitable condemnation.
Another element of interest was in default, to the regret of spectators haunted by the memory of the Bloody Day. Argall’s companions had not quit the villa put at their disposal by Illaz at the mouth of the little river whose upper course served the royal castle as an enclosure. It was a residence both rustic and luxurious, the magnificent present of the powerful vassal, where the Northerners did not have to fear either the torrid heat of the climate or the importunate curiosity of multitudes. The sea, the fresh waters and a long wooded islet with game-rich coverts offered them the distractions of hunting and fishing, whose resources, if necessary, would have permitted them to withstand a siege. Their boat, crossing the bottleneck of its former mooring, cleared of artificial obstacles after the surrender of the palace, had come to drop anchor—a veritable iron anchor, a masterpiece of the Atlantean ironworkers—in the miniature estuary, where the tribute of the springs of Bol-Gho, alimented by melting snows, almost rendered the impression of the icy baths of Erm-gilt-Herm.
That double absence, amply commentated upon, might have caused some annoyance to delicate connoisseurs, especially partisans of the variety of the spectacle, but all complaint had fallen silent, forgotten in the general and profound emotion, when the door opened of a little edifice lost in the immense shadow of the temple, ordinarily the abode of a few priests of inferior rank devoted to the guard and material maintenance of the sanctuary.
There, it was known, the accused had spent the night, alone with her thoughts, her regrets and her apprehensions, fully justified by the pitiless character and the accumulated rancor of her accuser and her judges. The majority expected to find her dejected, broken by her fall, trembling and stammering futile excuses. Some, however, recalled her attitude in the court of the Bloody Day, foreseeing a less easy triumph for Nohor—a vain revenge, however, which would render condemnation no less certain, and the tribunal no less rigorous.
The low and narrow bay, guarded by nearly a dozen temple servants, had appeared unmasked, its interior void black within the façade of gray stone. After a few seconds, that void brightened, as if by the approach of dawn. A moment more, and the turbulent crowd saluted with its oceanic rumor the royal captive, standing on the threshold.
She had resumed her costume of a virgin priestess: the long sheet of white cloth that raped her entirely in its harmonious folds, and the white sandals. Her black hair, simply gathered at the nape of her neck, her round and supple neck, her bare arms, of such slender grace, the pure oval of her face—her entire being—was now designed in full light, respiring a chaste elegance, and almost divine nobility. Her dark eyes were softly radiant. No sculptor, seeking to consecrate a masterpiece to the Celestial Protectress, had ever dreamed of a more exquisite model, nor one so marvelously realized.
“Oh, Nizia,” sighed Foski, the apprentice jewel-cutter, in the ear of his sister, the young dancer, pressed against him, almost in the front row, an envied position conquered by dint of patience, politeness and jabs of elbows courageously endured, “how beautiful she is! And what a statuette I could make, it seems to me, if my master Pnemphra wanted to confide the necessary wax to me…and later, for the mold, three or four pounds of silver.”
The ex-servant of the temple only replied with a sigh of her own. But a fat man nearby, slightly further forward, of whom they could only see the shoulders, and whose form, in such a crush, had not struck them, turned round abruptly, displaying the hooded eyelids, the heavy chops and the vast ears of Sire Pnemphra in person, master cutter and fanatical partisan of the regime of Gold and Iron.
“Clement gods!” whispered the child, in a murmur, to Nizia. “The boss! As long as he didn’t hear me…!”
But that hope was vain; the keen hearing of Sire Pnemphra was doubtless proportional to the amplitude of his auditory conches.
“Silver!” he sniggered, in a shrill voice that the eunuch Padoum might have envied him, and which contrasted humorously with the massive girth of his torso. “Silver! Why not gold, apprentice molder of waffles, budding sculptor of masterpieces of spiced bread, molder of water-melons and illuminator of black puddings! For such, no doubt, are the brilliant titles to which your genius can pretend! Silver for the impious and rascally sorceress, the enemy of our gods, the protégée of the Barbarians and the scourge of our land! Go on, I’ll give you silver…and fine wax… and all the time necessary from the hours you steal from me idling in the streets! But first, I’ll demand a drawing from nature, of which I’ll take charge of furnishing you the model: Foski and Nizia brought before the judges and whipped until the blood flows for their insolence, their idleness and their rebellion! If it’s true that the artist always represents well what he had felt intensely, that will certainly be the opportunity for a masterpiece!”
The outburst of patronal wrath provoked tempest of hilarity around him. The fat man was obliged to stop in order to mop his streaming brow. Foski, clenching his meager fists, muttered in a low voice: “If there were only the two of us, with a good dagger apiece…he might weigh three times as much as me, but...”
But his fearful sister squeezed his arm, and as he was difficult to calm down, showed him the accused standing beside the sacrificial stone.
“She’s going to speak. Don’t you want to hear?”
“Oh! Yes…yes...!” exclaimed the apprentice, suddenly forgetting the bruises to his self-esteem. And in a lower tone, brushing Nizia’s ear with his lips: “She’s more unfortunate than us!”
But the little dancer was mistaken. It was not yet time for Soroé to explain herself before her judges. The accusation had to precede the defense. Nohor, having cleared his throat, steadied himself on his short legs, in a pause that he was pleased to believe majestic.
“Before our immortal sovereign, Yerra, unique Queen of Atlantis, before the Sacred College, the supreme tribunal, in the presence of the only true Gods, whose eternal Essence soars above us, although it has not been possible to reestablish here their venerable images, toppled by sacrilegious hands...”
He pointed, at the two sides of the sacrificial stone, at the empty pedestals of the colossi of Gold and Iron. The altar itself had been respected, by Ruslem’s orders, its slightly concave and tilted obsidian slab, on its four somber basalt prisms serving to measure the abundance of the rain, furnishing the anticipations of laborers with an immemorial and necessary basis. But today, that place chosen for the accused struck minds with sinister comparisons. Perhaps alone, the royal virgin did not seem impressed.
Meanwhile, Nohor continued, raising his voice:
“We have summoned you to appear, Soroé, granddaughter of the priest Ruslem, pontiff of the ancient idols, or so-called heiress to the fallen dynasty—for that title, were it recognized, would remain as vain as your pretended cult of Light. Once before the Powers have summoned you, designated for you the supreme honor of serving them, down here or beyond the tomb, and to avoid that holy obligation, you did not hesitate to employ the resources of magic, and the armed aid of Barbarians! By your charms, our warriors feel defenselessly against the blows of seemingly-invulnerable enemies. Nature, troubled by your spells, seemed to confirm your lying declarations and give to the people, mute with fear, the example of submission to your laws. All that, the gods permitted in order to test the faith of the Atlanteans and furnish their true devotees with the opportunity to merit new favors. Alas, they were small in number! And the punishment was not long awaited! The scourges were unchained against us; the hurricane ravaged our fertile fields; the furious waters carried out to sea the scarcely-harvested crops. In our cities, conflagrations, the fire of the heavens reduced our dwellings to ashes; the contagion spread, flying from threshold to threshold!”
Cries and sobs rose up from the crowd. There were widows there, parents and fiancées in mourning.
Nohor savored his success.
“You found the tribute of immolated victims heavy! For a season and a half, blood has not reddened the sacrificial stone! Even criminals have been spared! But have you counted the increase in funeral corteges? Have you counted the bodies of sailors cast up on the shore after the tempest? And the cadavers of Lamb’ha?”
Twenty thousand arms were raised; twenty thousand cries burst forth simultaneously. Few inhabitants of Atlantis had had relatives killed or wounded in the army, but among the population of the port and the low-lying districts, the sea had claimed numerous victims, and, perhaps even more bitterly, the merchants wept for their engulfed riches. In sum, the fervent devotees of Gold and Iron found the occasion excellent for showing their zeal and—as the pontiff had just said—meriting new favors. Pnemphra, the master cutter, who had not lost anything or anyone, almost found the means of dominating the universal clamor with his shrill voice.
Nohor allowed the tumult to die down, and resumed, addressing himself once again to the prisoner.
“Of all these evils, you alone are the cause! Alone, with your partisans, your counselor and your defenders, you have aroused the fully justified wrath of the Powers, the veritable Gods, dispensers of good and evil! Impious priestess of a cult as vain as it is execrable, skillful sorceress of black magic, perfidious and rebellious subject, murderess of your compatriots, Atlantis owes its ruination to you, and will only respire when rid of you! I have not called witnesses; an entire people has seen your work! Fresh graves testify against you, and the joy of the circling vultures! But your judges and your sovereign will not condemn you without hearing you. They will listen, if you wish, to your defense, weigh in the balance your crimes and whatever their excuses might be: our youth, I imagine; detestable lessons; and—I hope, for your sake—your repentance!”
The pontiff fell silent, embracing the multitude with the gaze, according to him, of a fascinator. His final declaration left him particularly satisfied. There reigned within it, he thought, a truly moving mixture of authority, vehemence, grandeur and superhuman pity.
That pity, however, did not go as far as making him desire any reduction whatsoever in the inevitable sentence. The memory of his recent humiliation had not been effaced by his reconquered eminence. He had been too frightened to feel the slightest desire to forgive.
“Vile man!” Foski summarized, in Nizia’s ear.
The dancer, squeezing his wrist with one hand, pointed with the other at Pnemphra, fortunately deafened by his own acclamations. All the partisans of Gold and Iron were imitating him in a marvelous ensemble. But the rumor of applause soon died away. A movement of the accused indicated her intention to respond, and of what she might say, no one, even the cruelest, wanted to miss a single word.
For a moment, looking at the ground, she seemed to collect herself, blushing slightly. Soon, however, with her head held high, without any hesitation and without a tremor, her clear and pure voice carrying the slightest syllable, she spoke:
“I will reply, Nohor, not to you, who know full well that your accusations are lies, nor to your judges, whose sentence is determined in advance, but to these people who are listening to us. Once before we have found ourselves face to face, and if it had only depended on you, my blood would have been spilled on the altar. At that time, however, there was no question of magic. You saw in me merely the daughter of Ruslem, an obscure servant of the clement gods, to whom, every day, I brought the accustomed offering, imploring them for the salvation of my people and Atlantis. Never, as you know full well, did I cast any spells. Already, however, you had condemned me. What was then my crime? This—I shall say it, no matter what it costs me: You had done me the honor of finding me beautiful, and despairing of rendering me docile, you wanted, as a servant of the temple, to see me at your mercy. You did not think that I would prefer death!”
The mitered pedant blanched under the shock. The imputation was so evidently true, the reproach struck so accurately, that even among his partisans, no recrimination rose up. Yerra, impassive, had the imperceptible curl of a dissimulated smile on her lips. Her warriors, caressing their chins, pretended to be readjusting their shoulder-straps or the clasps of their scabbards, while exchanging oblique glances, and had difficulty keeping their faces straight.
A few murmurs finally rose up in the crowd, mingling indignation and pity.
Soroé went on: “It was then that the one you call the Stranger intervened. Argall, the Son of the North, who had already saved me from the claws of the Guardian of the Threshold. I did not know him otherwise; I had not seen him since. He was pleased to take my defense, and the divine Sword shone in his hand. At that moment, Nohor, pontiff of bloody idols, did you not bow your head? Did you not bend your knee? Did you not salute the Liberator, and a few days later, humbly beg him for mercy and pardon? Did those things not happen before everyone, and are they not known throughout Atlantis? Why, then, have I alone revolted against the will of the gods, manifested by the most striking prodigies? Why should I not have accepted that spouse that they destined for me?”
While the accused expressed herself in that manner, simply, the accuser had difficulty concealing his unease. Never, in spite of the lessons of the Bloody Day, would he have believed the pupil of Ruslem capable of responding so boldly. To impose silence on her would be easy, but that would be to admit his defeat. However, the name of Argall, pronounced by her, and the allusion to their betrothal, caused him to glimpse the agreeable prospect of a revenge even before the final crushing of her sentence and her execution. He interrupted her.
“If the gods had thus decided, why did your spouse abandon you before the wedding?”
The brutal blow struck home. The virgin shuddered; tears invaded her eyes, stifling her voice momentarily. Stiffening herself almost immediately, however, dominating the pedant with all the hauteur of her disdain, she said:
“If he were here you would be at my feet. But you can, indeed, triumph. I do not know what has become of Argall. I do not believe that he left me of his own free will. In any case, I have done nothing to merit that disgrace. May it please the gods, however, that at that price, I can be certain of his salvation. Alas, he might have succumbed to the ambushes of a traitor, to perish by iron or poison. That would explain the renascent anger of the gods, the scourges once again unleashed, all the misfortunes of Atlantis!”
A prolonged rumor, like a swell of astonishment, was propagated through the ranks of the multitude. That point of view, singularly plausible, modified the popular conception of recent events, and displaced the responsibility. Many suddenly perceived that Soroé, proclaimed Queen of Atlantis, having no interest in ruining her own realm, was perhaps not the only, or even the principal, author of its woes. All those who were not in fief to the temple, resolutely rallied in advance to the conclusions, whatever they might be, of Nohor, were more or less subject to the charm of beauty, innocence and misfortune courageously supported. Few now, if they had been asked to fulfill the office of judges, would have pronounced for the accuser.
The royal virgin went on: “Living or dead, he has let the Sword fall from his hands. The scourges, momentarily mastered, have recommenced their ravages. Who will rediscover the divine weapon? Who will take up the unfinished endeavor? Can Atlantis still have hope? The oracles and the prophecies have only promised us one Liberator!”
“Ah!” cried Nohor, exultant at what he took to be an admission of defeat. “You confess, then, that for you, everything is finished?”
But already, shaking her head, the accused had resumed.
“Nothing is finished…except Darkness and Evil; for Good is as eternal as Light. That which a hero has not accomplished, the people can complete. You will aid them to do that by putting me to death. Remember what the most ancient and the most inspired of our books says: If the victim is condemned, the fate of the people will depend on their own resolution. They will be saved if they wish. If not...”
A prolonged murmur ran through the crowd. The Atlanteans, outside of the priestly caste, generally ignorant of the sacred texts, nevertheless held them in high esteem, or, rather, in profound veneration. No doubt the prophecy would be accomplished; only the interpretation could be controversial.
Nohor, however, sought a means of breaking the current of sympathy that he saw forming and growing, not without anxiety, in favor of the accused. He shrugged his shoulders and attempted to snigger.
“Why have you stopped?”
“You’re right: I ought to quote the passage to the end. May the gods deflect the presage from us: If not, the work of Argall will be destroyed. Fire and water will join forces. Atlantis will perish!”
A ripple of alarm caused heads to undulate as the precursory breath of a storm curbs heavy ears of corn. Some tried to deny the text, but others affirmed that they had read it, or heard it cited by learned individuals. Even Nohor did not contest it.
A voice rose up from the crowd, interrogating the captive directly.
“And in order to be saved, how must the people act?”
The partisan of the temple affected indignation. Pnemphra, swinging his vast ears, declared that the interrupter ought to be arrested instantly and reserved for the next sacrifice. But Foski, disguising his voice, to the secret terror of his accomplice, Nizia, repeated the indiscreet question. Twenty voices followed, then hundreds. Those who dared not cry out exchanged frowns full of implication, with grave expressions.
Nohor, impotent, stamped his foot, Soroé turned completely toward the crowd.
“The scourges are only issues of our weakness, our divisions and our cowardice. Unite, and you will be strong! Brave them, and they will recoil. That, however, cannot be accomplished in a day, not in a year. It required centuries, under Argall’s successors, to consolidate their empire. But be courageous, patient and docile; listen to the lessons of the sages, reject the counsels of the violent; help one another! Habituate yourselves to considering Gold and Iron, not as gods, not as your masters, but as dangerous but necessary servants, which must be ceaselessly supervised and never delivered to themselves. Argall once made them his slaves. Above all, do not re-erect their bloody altars! Let this sacrifice, of which I will be the victim, be the last! At that price, you will be free; you will be happy, under the protection of the clement gods, the adorable and peaceful reign of Light! If not, you, your sons...”
She fell silent. The multitude, silent now, waited, suspended on her lips. But on the green step, the entire tribunal rose up, their fists extended, their mouths twisted, vomiting threats and insults. Nohor was not spared. His indecision, his incompetence, seemed equivalent to a treason to his indignant colleagues. All of them cried, simultaneously:
“Impious!”
“Scoundrel!”
“Sacrilege!”
“A gag!”
“The Gulf will punish your insolence!”
“Will you let her speak thus any longer!”
“Has she not said enough to scandalize you?”
“What need do we have to hear any more?”
“Are we here to judge?”
“Finish it!”
They stamped their feet. Nohor, bewildered, breathed like a diver ready to plunge.
“You’ve heard the blasphemer!”
“What need is there to persist?”
“Was there ever a more obvious crime—a more complete confession?”
“Indeed!”
The judges sat down, calmed down, and readjusted the folds of their crimson stoles.
“Shall we retire to deliberate? Is there a single one among you whose conscience still hesitates?”
The tribunal nearly became annoyed again. Nohor was truly abusing the formulae.
“No!”
“No!”
“Immediately!”
“Put it the vote!”
“But it isn’t necessary!”
The interjections overlapped. The pontiff raised his hand and obtained a moment of silence.
“You are of the opinion that the accused is guilty?”
Twenty-four mouths under twenty-four black miters opened with a single movement, letting fall a single word:
“Guilty!”
“What punishment?”
“Death!”
“What method?”
“The Gulf!”
Finally, Nohor understood the situation, the determination of his colleagues, the necessity of rapid action. The crowd, mute now, uncertain of its own desires, looked on, listening to the wheels of destruction turn, of the solemn and prompt machine of death.
The pedant stood on tiptoe, arched his back, stuck out his chest. His voice burst forth like a clarion, sounding the sinister revenge of his vanity and his covetousness. At that moment he seemed hideous, almost as terrible as he was ridiculous.
“Soroé, granddaughter of Ruslem, so-called heiress of the ancient kings, convicted of crimes against your country, blasphemy against the gods, rebellion and sorcery, the supreme tribunal has condemned you to the death of traitors, the anathematized, maleficent spellcasters and poisoners. Three days hence, under the reserve of the consent of our Queen, you will be taken to the desolate hill and precipitated into the Gulf. The subterranean gods will perhaps accept the offering of such a victim. Your infamous blood would soil the altar. Go!”
His extended arm designed the irrevocable gesture, the supreme complement of sentences without appeal. The temple servants rapidly reformed their lines, surrounded the condemned woman, and drew her toward the dark door, which she doubtless only passed through in order to go to her execution.
Already, Yerra was descending the steps, at the bottom of which a litter was waiting. Her escort cut swiftly through the crowd, respectful in any case, still under the charm of her mysterious nature and sovereign beauty. Acclamations accompanied her all the way to the ancient palace on the other side of the square.
On the green step and its two neighbors, however, the priest-judges lingered, standing up and arguing bitterly. Nohor’s attitude was severely appreciated, his prestige compromised, to the extent that he had renounced enclosing himself in a disdainful silence, and defended himself, accused in his turn, forgetful of the vile multitude.
The latter, meanwhile, watched from below, driven back in vain by the armed servants, whom they overflowed effortlessly and became accustomed to no longer fearing, since they dared not strike. In the ranks too, arguments broke out. Pnemphra, believing that he was addressing a further reprimand to his apprentice Foski, had found himself confronting a thin but vigorous copper-beater, who taking the insult personally, had riposted in fine fashion.
“That,” the master cutter had fulminated before having remarked the substitution of one person for the other, “is a fine lesson for idlers of your species! Get rid of sacrifices! And doubtless also beatings with fists and the lash! Then you’d have a good time!”
To which the artisan, without reflecting on the impropriety of certain terms regarding him that demonstrated the evident error, and only considering the social category and well-to-do appearance of his interlocutor, had hastened to reply:
“Hark at you, the fat boss! Come on, with your fists and you lash! You’ll see whether my hammer will soften on your greasy hide! Aren’t you ashamed to be bursting with wellbeing in your skin when unfortunate workers are dying of hunger? No—so try me a little, I tell you. With nothing but these two fists I’ll render you as thin as a leaf of beaten bronze and as meek as a little girl!”
The fists—the only part of the metalworker in which nature was generously manifest—presented, at the end of thin and muscular arms, the appearance of two knots at the extremities of a rope. Pnemphra judged that they would offer a similar resistance, and that a quarrel with such an aggressor would be entirely beneath his dignity.
Twenty analogous scenes from one end of the square to the other, however, completed warming the blood and irritating the nerves of the crowd. Abruptly, without anyone being able to tell where it came from, a clamor went up:
“Down with Nohor! Down with the judges!”
Stones rebounded from the steps. The tribunal beat a prompt retreat.
But the assailants stopped at the bottom of the steps. A terror still reigned at the foot of the giant colonnade, now at the most hostile distance. Then the determined partisans of Gold and Iron joined forces with their armed servants, and aided them to drive back and break up the crowd. The latter, in any case, had no objective, unconscious of its desires as well as its strength. Nohor and his colleagues were no longer there, having disappeared into the immensity of the temple, returning via subterranean tunnels to the priestly residence on the other side of the ravine, encircled by triple walls and inaccessible. Lassitude and hunger gradually calmed the anger and confused the groups, bringing the people back toward the poor quarters, where the majority at least found a shelter.
The rumor spread of a distribution of food. Convoys from the north, the only region that the tempest had not ravaged entirely, still had difficulty getting through. Atlantis was suffering a great misery.