Mention My Name in Atlantis

  "I sailed out in command of my band of reavers to plunder the shipping lanes. However, that storm caught us by surprise. Our stout vessel foundered, then broke apart. In the midst of the holocaust, we sighted the monster.

  "A creature from time forgot! A sea dragon of the most baleful appearance. It loomed amidst the crashing waves and fixed us with its glowing eye...

  "Save for myself, all hands were lost. I alone was washed up on your unfriendly shore. I have, however, sent a message which will reach my homeland, whereupon my stout host will come to fetch me. When they get here very likely they'll sack, loot, rape, burn and murder. They're that sort. Being their leader, so am I."

  "Uh," said Hoptor the Atlantean, "can you tell me what happened to the sea-dragon?"

  "Disappeared! Right at the height of the storm, too. Doubtless it feared to face the sword of Conax the Chimerical!"

  MENTION MY NAME IN ATLANTIS

  —Being, at Last, the True Account of the Calamitous Destruction of the Great Island Kingdom, Together with a Narrative of Its Wondrous Intercourses with a Superior Race of Other-Worldlings, as Transcribed from the Manuscript of a Survivor, Hoptor the Vintner, for the Enlightenment of a Dubious Posterity—

  by

  JOHN JAKES

  Dedication

  To the memory of the real Robert E. Howard who has been kept spinning in his grave for the last decade by the new antics of his favorite character's overactive ghost, not to mention his busy and admiring imitators.

  Prologue

  I, Hoptor, write this, none other.

  I write in the month of the Eager Virgin, in the year of the Warty Toad. That is, I believe those are the correct dates. In these confused times, who can say?

  Still, I wish to provide an approximation of the correct moment in which this narrative is begun, for the benefit of all future historians who may seek to unravel the mystery of what befell our splendid Island Kingdom, fair Atlantis.

  Now, so that there be no deceit between us, reader—for Hoptor the Vintner is an honest man if nothing else!—let me sketch, in brief, my motives for undertaking the task of setting down this chronicle.

  First, it has been said—by ignorant, cheating rascals!—that I, Hoptor the Vintner, am no more than a thief, panderer, and peddler of influence of the most dubious sort. This narrative shall, perforce, prove all that false, and paint a portrait of myself neither flattering nor distorted, but only truthful: revealing me as I am—brave, resourceful, compassionate, keenly intelligent; in short, a humanitarian of the first rank.

  However, as I take stylus in hand, I am moved rather more by considerations historical. For whatever else may be told about Hoptor the Vintner—by jealous, slanderous rogues!—be it known that, in my deepest of hearts, I loved our Island Kingdom with a great love, for there I was born, and there I occasionally prospered. Until, of course, the unhappy events which I narrate here.

  What a fair place she was, Atlantis! Rock in the blue sea! Imposing palaces! Splendid avenues! Women of the most vigorous, not to say unbridled, passion!

  I digress.

  Sunny skies—metaphorically!—smiled upon our Island Kingdom day without end, and it was men, not gods, who ultimately brought this happy condition to an unhappy end. Of Atlantis itself, the city-state upon the great rocky isle, little ill could be spoken. She was magnificent; her only unfortunate mannerism—if I may indulge in a conceit and thus personalize her—being a certain tendency to irritate the meteorological gods. Fierce sea storms lashed her with great frequency. Yet she remained safe and secure behind her mighty seawall with its system of intricate valving, of which I shall have more to say later in this thrilling account of her final days.

  But as I have stressed, and here stress again, it was not the natural gods who destroyed the town of my birth, but witless men!

  In this fashion I arrive at my chief motive for this telling, and that motive is, secondly, to provide a clear and unbiased account of the days of the fall.

  For now that fair Atlantis has sunk into the sea, I have a feeling that all sorts of addle-brained authors—let us speak straightforwardly! crackpots!—will concoct fictions about her; pretty tales based upon some bit of misinformation or other mumbled to them by their toothless old grannies while they puled in their cribs.

  On the other side of the sea, I am told—eastward—there supposedly exists just such a race of ignorant quill-mongers. I understand they are called Graeco, or Graeks, and are indolent fellows with nothing better to do, it seems, than write long treatises chock-full of spurious information. Happily, they are also weaklings. They cannot build stout ships. Therefore, fair Atlantis was never burdened with intercourse with them. Isolation upon an island-rock has its advantages!

  In generations to come, however, such unscrupulous pseudoscholars may, I fear, wax rich off the sufferings of we citizens of the Island Kingdom, and no doubt inaccuracies will spread pell-mell.

  Thus I write.

  And while my account will likely never be published—as if it could be, given my present odious circumstances!—at least mine will be the satisfaction of having set down the true, as opposed to the false, facts.

  Therefore, roll back, o time! Part, o veils of yesterday!! Rise from the sweet illusions of the mind, o splendid and mighty kingdom of Atl—

  This is writ sometime later. Growing overly excited, I broke my stylus and had to replace it with another.

  In a less heated frame of mind, I now begin the account, in the month of the Eager Virgin, in the year of the Warty Toad, at a location—as far as I can tell!—some several hundred millions of miles from planet Earth.

  * One *

  A servant came from the house of Noxus, a pious old lecher if ever there was one, and sought me in the garden of my villa, where I was busy tending my vines.

  Because of the unfortunate tendency of my waistline to increase, its size thereby rendering physical activity most difficult, my horticultural endeavors consisted of remaining seated upon a bench, a jar of wine in hand, while contemplating the undernourished stalks which twined over the arbors, as well as the few moldy-looking grapes which clustered here and there —pathetic things!—upon them. Naturally, any fool knows that good grapes cannot be raised in a walled garden on an island. But one must maintain appearances!

  The servant entered the garden and said, "Hail, Hoptor."

  "Hail," I answered, "and how may I be of service?"

  "My master wishes to order some wine," said he, with a leer which would have distressed me had we not been safely hidden behind those selfsame high walls. One could not be too careful, considering that the graying Judges were never very sporting about the way in which a fellow turned a profit.

  "Wine," I repeated. "For this evening, mayhap?"

  "To be delivered after the evening meal." He winked. "Circumspectly. By dark, as it were."

  Naturally I remained unruffled in the face of this seemingly peculiar request, replying in my smoothest manner, "And what vintage does noble Noxus desire?"

  "He leaves that to your discretion. However, he bade me ask for a vintage which is robust, yet playfully teasing."

  "Playfully teasing. Very good. Continue."

  "One which is mellow at first contact— "

  "Mellow at first contact," I said, writing upon a tablet. "Capital. More?"

  "But with a certain delicious vigor when savored to the full."

  "I have just the vintage in mind. It shall be delivered by me personally."

  The servant raised a hand. "One more thing. My lord also asks that in addition to the other qualities, it be a vintage of delicious bite."

  Making lightning calculations on the nature of my current inventory, I crossed out the word I had prev
iously written and inscribed redhead. We then haggled, first speaking loudly, then shouting. Aided by a brief exchange of blows, we settled upon the price of one hundred zebs. I helped the servant dress the wound I had given him during our commercial exchange—we Atlanteans are lusty bargainers!—and then I shook hands with him as he departed. Never let it be said that Hoptor is not democratic to a fault!

  When he had gone, I retired to my study, one of forty-seven comfortable rooms in the villa which I had acquired several years earlier as a fruit of my profitable trade. There I considered the matter of exactly which vintage I would deliver to Noxus as soon as the sun went down.

  There was truly but one choice. And while it might lead to an argumentative afternoon, still, Noxus was an important man, and none but the finest would satisfy. Sweeping all obstacles before me, I made the necessary arrangements, and at twilight loaded the cask onto my cart.

  I noted a crack in the cart's axle that would have to be seen to eventually. I then hitched up my ass and set off through Atlantis' teeming streets.

  From porches, doorways, and balconies, I was hailed and greeted, and I returned each greeting in kind. It was a matter of pride to me that, wherever I went in the city, I was known. Indeed, there was hardly a quarter—including the palace of His Exaltedness—with whose intimate affairs I was not familiar. Mothers and merchants, sluts and street-singers, all hallooed me as I moved along.

  Pausing by a corner shrine, I was accosted by a juggler of my acquaintance who had been standing disconsolately with his balls in hand.

  "What, Lemmix," said I, "not tossing the colored spheres this evening?"

  With a miserable expression he showed me his hands, much bruised. "It's my wife. We had a fight and she thwacked me so hard with a broom handle that my fingers are totally numb."

  "What caused this unhappy altercation?"

  "Oh, we haven't been getting along at all well lately, Hoptor. I think she's taken a lover. The baker's boy. Is it my fault that I have to work nights, juggling these damn balls for a few miserable coins? Is it my fault that I come home dead tired and can't fulfill husbandly duties?"

  "Well, old friend, we'll fix that. Take yourself to the Street of the Purple Pestles. Third shop on the right. Ask the owner to prepare a draft to rectify your unhappy condition. Such beverages are illegal, but they work."

  "But I can't afford to buy so much as a jar of water, let alone a love potion!"

  "The apothecary owes me a favor, Lemmix, so just hurry along. By the time the sun rises, you'll be sporting like a young stallion, and your wife will be sighing in utter contentment."

  Thanking me profusely, he rushed off. As he hurried away, I called after him, "And be sure to mention my name!" He nodded and was gone.

  From my position on the seat of my cart, I flicked my little whip and urged my ass forward. I was happy to have assisted Lemmix, for one never knows when, as it were, chickens may come home to roost. At such times, it's useful to be able to count an inventory of favors. A favor done is a favor owed, as they say.

  A crowd of urchins soon surrounded the cart, teasing and whining for zebs. I waved them away, but one exclaimed,

  "What do you have in the cask, fatty?"

  "Begone, you little ruffian, or I'll box your ears."

  "That's Hoptor the Vintner," said another of the wretches to his comrades.

  "Such a big cask for wine," commented the next.

  "My client has a big thirst. And I have a big fist!"

  That sent them packing, I don't mind telling you.

  Near the next corner, an elderly fellow with a bald pate and sad eyes rushed from a doorway and seized my leg.

  "Hoptor, my friend, they're closing my shop!"

  "What? Shutter the finest sausage shop in all of Atlantis? How dare they, whoever they are?"

  "My license has been revoked by some bureaucrat at the palace. It's being given to the nephew of the assistant superintendent of licensing, a young numbskull who, I understand, can get no other job and knows absolutely nothing about the art of making sausages. To be thrown out of the business which I have operated for twenty years by a pack of political grafters is unendurable! My family is destitute!"

  Indeed it was certainly so. From the open doorway where a lamp gleamed there issued the most unhappy of feminine wails.

  "Now, Calumnos, calm yourself," I said to my friend, who had staked me to sausages in many a lean time. "Tomorrow morning, simply pay a visit to the licensing bureau. Ignore that imbecile of an assistant superintendent and apply directly to the superintendent himself."

  Blanching, Calumnos cried, "But I'll never be permitted in the office of so high a personage!"

  "You will if you mention my name," I assured him. "Explain your grievance and you'll have your license back in a trice."

  Modestly waving off his tears of gratitude, I flicked my ass and proceeded around the corner.

  The evening was balmy and pleasant. A large percentage of our citizenry had come out of doors. Bully boys and babes in arms jostled one another along the cobbled ways, and a sky the color of lemons spread peacefully overhead. The sea could be heard murmuring against the mighty walls in periods when no one in the immediate vicinity was arguing, cursing, or shrieking in mortal pain. A pleasant aroma compounded of cheap perfume, roast meat, and unwashed bodies permeated the air. Unsavory to some, perhaps, but it was the scent of the life of my fair city. I relished it.

  Shortly, a press prevented me from passing on with speed, so I climbed down and walked around the rear of the cart. I thought I had heard knocking. Bending close to the cask, I hissed:

  "What's the matter? Can't you breathe?"

  In reply, I heard only a scratching sound, then a kind of feline wailing in which I recognized but one word. That, however, was sufficient to freeze the blood, the word being marriage.

  I precluded further discussion by rapping the cask sharply and growling, "Be quiet, we're in the midst of a small mob."

  As in truth we were. Many had gathered in a little plaza, in the center of which, on a crate, stood a deranged looking woman of middle years. I realized belatedly that she was some sort of seeress, with which Atlantis is overpopulated — not to say afflicted!

  Tearing her hair—a bit too vigorously for my taste!—she cried, "Doom! Doom! Doom!"

  "Doom?" I said to one nearby. "What's all this about?"

  "Fortuna is predicting a great calamity soon to befall the kingdom."

  "Oh, is that all." It happened week in, week out.

  "Yes, but two dead hogs were found in the temple last night. Also, this morning, three sets of twins were born within an hour of each other. And all backward!"

  "The former is a prank, the latter of no significance," I informed him, though in truth the latter, so freighted with the overtones of matrimony, curdled my spine and sent me hurrying ahead until I, ass, and cart had mercifully bypassed the throng.

  "Doom! Doom—!" The harpy's cries faded from my ears none too soon.

  I had no faith in the ubiquitous street prophets. Yet I do confess to a peculiar and lingering sense of unease following the exhibition by the seeress. Of late, these prophecies of calamity had been coming with greater and greater frequency. And, in most curious fashion, fair Atlantis had been visited by few, if any, of the raging sea storms which customarily ravaged it, month in, month out.

  Traders fresh off commercial ships continued to report the usual maelstroms far out to sea. But in recent weeks, the Island Kingdom had remained becalmed; as if the gods were withholding their wrath in order to make a final blow more devastating—

  I am happy to report that these unwholesome broodings did not linger long, thanks to the sudden appearance of a young woman who hailed me from a second floor balcony and then came rushing down an outer stair.

  That is, she rushed as fast as her noticeably distended stomach would permit!

  "What's this, Rhomona? Married and starting a family? And it was only last month you were industriously engaged
outside the soldiers' barracks!"

  "Oh, Hoptor—ohhh!" Misery prevented her from saying more.

  She was not a bad looking wench, though she lacked the wit and grace to succeed in the wine trade. She had often importuned me to take her into my vineyard, as it were. Regretfully, I had been forced to decline, familiar as I was with her bent for profanity, not to mention the aura of refinement demanded by my august clientele. Rhomona's handicaps did not prevent me from liking her, however.

  "I am not married!" she wailed at last, then launched into one of those unseemly diatribes which seemed endless in their repetitive outrage; I suffered through the blistering profanities, then inquired:

  "Pray, who is the object of all this wrath, girl? Some military man?"

  "Oh, no, a lying, cheating—" Another passage of gutter discourse too shocking to be recorded here. Then: "He said he loved me! He said it was perfectly safe! And when I went to his house, after I discovered I was in this condition, he said I should go away."

  "Tell me the name of the rascal at once."

  She did. I blanched.

  "That is a predicament, Rhomona. Not only is he highly placed among the nobility, he is married."

  "So I found out," sobbed the poor child. "Afterward! Now I can't work—"

  "Yes," I agreed with heartfelt sympathy, "I can see how a customer would be a trifle loath to snuggle up to—yes, I see the problem."

  "Kindly Hoptor—" She tried to bring herself close to the cart, but the protrusion of her abdomen made this difficult. She settled for straining on tiptoes and grasping my hands. "Is there nothing that can be done to force the father of my unborn child to pay his just due?"

  "Unfortunately, I doubt it. Not only is the gentleman you named of high station"— (Why had he not come to me for a vintage? I wondered, with some pique.) —"but his wife, a shrew in every respect, is none other than the intimate confidante of Her Exaltedness, Voluptua. Attempting to blackmail folk of that sort will only land you in the king's dungeons."