Читать книгу The Big Fisherman - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 4

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It was a calm, early summer noon in the southern mountains of Arabia. Sheltering the King’s well-guarded domain, a mile above and a dozen miles east of the Dead Sea, motionless masses of neighborly white clouds hung suspended from a remote blue ceiling.

There had been an unusually heavy snowfall in the winter, not only upon the King’s land but throughout the country. It was going to be a prosperous season for everybody. Intertribal jangling and discontent would be reduced to a minimum. Arabia anticipated a relatively peaceful summer.

Viewed from the main entrance to the King’s encampment the undulating plateau was a rich pasture on which a thousand newly shorn sheep, indifferent to the rough nuzzling of their hungry lambs, grazed greedily as if some instinct warned that there might be a famine next season.

Nor was a famine improbable, for the distribution of snow was unpredictable. Almost never were two consecutive winters partial to the same area. This accounted for the nomadic habits of the people. They held no permanent property, built no permanent homes. They lived in tents; and, with their flocks, followed the snow and the grass. All but the King, whose encampment was a fixed establishment. When the King had a dry season the tribes replenished his purse.

And few ever complained about this assessment, for the crown in Arabia was more than an ornament worn on state occasions. The King was indispensable in this country. He earned his wages and his honors. It required a strong and courageous man to deal equitably with these restless, reckless, competitive tribesmen who were distinguished throughout the East for the brevity of their tempers and the dexterity of their knives.

It had been a long time since Arabia had been governed by a ruler with the moral and physical strength of King Aretas. Everyone respected his relentless administration of justice to the rich and poor alike. There was no favoritism. They all admired his firmness, feared his frown, and—for the most part—obeyed his decrees.

Of course it would have been foolish to say that the Arabian people were sentimentally devoted to Aretas. In his difficult position he could not bid for their affection: he wanted only their obedience; prompt obedience and plenty of it. But there were a few who did sincerely love the taciturn, sober-faced, cold-blooded Aretas.

First of all there was his motherless daughter Arnon, upon whom he bestowed a tenderness that would have amazed the predatory sheiks who had often been stilled to sullen silence under his hot chastisements. And there was battle-scarred old Kedar, who had taught him to ride when he was a mere lad of ten, who had watched him draw a man’s bow to full torsion when he was in his early teens, and had followed him worshipfully into all his hazardous adventures as Prince and King. And there were his twelve Counsellors who, in varying degrees, shared his confidence. Especially there was Ilderan, Chief of the King’s Council. And young Zendi, Ilderan’s eldest son who, everyone surmised, would presently marry the Princess Arnon with whom he was reputed to be much in love. Surely the wedding would be soon, they thought, for the Princess had recently celebrated her sixteenth birthday.

The tribesmen, who rarely agreed about anything, were unanimous in their approval of this alliance. Not only was Arnon popular for her beauty, and Zendi for his almost foolhardy courage, but—taking a long view of their marriage—there might come a day when Zendi would be their ruler; for if an Arabian King was without male issue the throne passed to the house of the Chief Counsellor. Ilderan was nearing sixty. If anything were to happen to Aretas, which was not inconceivable, considering how dangerously he lived, the gallant young Zendi might succeed him. This would be generally acceptable. All Arabia looked forward to the royal wedding. It would be a great occasion. It would last for a week. There would be games, races and feasting.

In the shade of a clump of willows sheltering a walled spring, not far from the royal encampment, Arnon was awaiting the return of her father who had ridden early to the camp of Ilderan, seven miles east. She had joined him at breakfast, shortly after dawn, finding him moody and silent.

“Is anything amiss, my father?” Arnon had ventured to ask.

The King’s reply was long delayed. Slowly lifting his eyes he had stared preoccupiedly at the tent-wall beyond her.

“Nothing you would know about,” he had said, as from a distance.

Arnon had not pressed her query. Her father had made short work of his breakfast. At the tent-door he had turned to say, “I am consulting with Ilderan. I shall return by midday.”

For a long time Arnon had sat alone, wondering what had happened. Perhaps it had something to do with the message her father had received yesterday. Of course there was nothing strange about the arrival of a courier with a message. It happened nearly every day. But this courier—she had seen him riding away—was apparently from afar. He was attended by a half-dozen servants with a well-laden pack-train. The donkeys had seemed cruelly overburdened. After the courier had departed, the King had retired to his own quarters. It was quite obvious that he did not want to be disturbed.

Arnon strolled restlessly about under the willows, her thoughts busily at work on the riddle. Presently her wide-set black eyes lighted as she saw her father coming up the well-worn trail, at full gallop, on his white stallion. She knew what to do. Emerging from the shade, Arnon stood beside the bridle-path with her shapely arms held high. Aretas leaned far to the left—the stallion suddenly slackening speed—and sweeping his arm about the girl’s slim waist—swung her lightly over the horse’s shoulder and into the saddle. Arnon laughed softly and pressed her cheek against her father’s short, graying beard. No words were exchanged for a little while.

“You have something very serious on your mind, haven’t you, Father?” murmured Arnon.

He drew the stallion down to an easy canter.

“I have had a strange message from Herod, the King of the Jews,” said Aretas, slowing the impatient horse to a walk. “Herod wants me to meet him for a private conference, a fortnight hence, in the city of Petra.”

“How fine for you, Father!” exclaimed Arnon. “You’ve always said you were going to visit that beautiful city!” Quickly noting her father’s lack of enthusiasm, she inquired, “But—you’re going; aren’t you?”

“Yes—it sounds important.”

“Is it not a long journey from Jerusalem to Petra? I wonder why the Jewish King wishes the conference held there?”

“Perhaps it is something that concerns Petra, too.”

There was an interval of silence before Arnon spoke again.

“Is this not the first message you have ever had from the King of the Jews?”

“It is indeed! The first that has crossed our border for—” Aretas paused to reflect.

“A hundred years?” guessed Arnon.

“A thousand years!” said Aretas. “Many, many more than a thousand!”

“What do you make of it, Father? What does the Jewish King want of us?”

Aretas shook his head. They were arriving at the encampment now. Guards stepped out to meet them. Arnon was released from her father’s arms and slipped lightly to the ground. Dismounting, the King beckoned to old Kedar, as his horse was led away.

“You will fit out an expedition to Petra. We are leaving on the third day of the week. The Counsellors will accompany us, and a guard of twenty riders. We may be tented at Petra for one day—or ten: it is not yet determined. The Counsellors will have had their instructions from Ilderan. You will attend to all the other arrangements.”

“The festival tents?” inquired Kedar, implying that his sharp old eyes had observed the royal insignia on the accouterments of yesterday’s courier.

“No,” replied Aretas. “We will take only the equipment we commonly use when we visit the tribesmen.”

Kedar bowed his gray head, his seamed face showing disappointment. He wanted to say that if the event was of high importance the King should make a better show of his royalty. He was turning away when Aretas spoke again, quite brusquely:

“And—Kedar—though you may have conjectured about the nature of our errand in Petra, if anyone should ask you what is afoot you will reply that you do not know. And that will be the truth.”

Retiring to his private quarters, the King resumed his contemplation of the conundrum. What manner of emergency could have induced the proud and pompous Herod to ignore the age-old enmity between their nations?

For all of fifteen centuries, notwithstanding they were neighbors according to the map—their frontiers facing across an erratic little river that a boy could wade in midsummer—the Arabs and the Jews had been implacable foes. This ancient feud had not been rooted in racial incompatibility, though there was plenty of that too. The antipathy had derived from a definite incident that had occurred long ago; so very long ago that nobody knew how much of the story might be mythical. But—let the tale be half fact, half fiction—it accounted for the bitter hatred of these people.

According to the saga chanted about the Arabian campfires by wandering minstrels, a wise and wealthy migrant had ventured from Chaldea to the Plains of Mamre. It was a long story, but the minstrels never omitted their elaborate tribute to Chaldea as a land of seers and sages, oracles and astrologers. In Chaldea men dreamed prophetically and were entrusted with celestial secrets. Abraham, distinguished above them all for his learning, had received divine instructions to make a far journey southward and found a new nation.

But the prophecy was in danger of lacking fulfillment, for the years were passing and the founder of the new nation was childless. Sarah, his aging wife, was barren.

To solve this problem, the perplexed idealist had won the consent of his wife to permit his alliance with a beautiful young native in their employ. A son was born to them. They named him Ishmael. He was a handsome, headstrong, adventurous child, passionately devoted to his desert-born mother whom he closely resembled. Sarah, naturally enough, did not like him. Abraham admired the boy’s vitality and courage, but Ishmael was quite a handful for the old man whose hours of pious meditation were becoming increasingly brief and confused.

To further complicate this domestic dilemma, Sarah surprised everybody by producing a son of her own. They named him Isaac. He was not a rugged child. His eyesight was defective; so defective that in his later life he had gone stone-blind. He was no match for his athletic half-brother. For a little while they all tried to be polite and conciliatory, but the inevitable conflict presently flared to alarming dimensions. Sarah no longer made any effort to control her bitter hatred for young Hagar and her tempestuous son. “These imposters,” she shouted, shrilly, “must go! Today! Now!”

With appropriate misgivings, Abraham conducted Hagar and their indignant boy to the rim of his claim, gave the bewildered girl a loaf of bread and a jug of water, and pointed south toward the mountains. Not a word was spoken. Abraham turned and plodded slowly toward his little colony of tents. Hagar did not look back.

When the vagabond minstrels sang the old story which, as the ages passed, lost nothing of the magical in the telling, they declared that Ishmael grew to full manhood that day. This may have been a slight exaggeration, though enough had happened to hasten his maturity. He swore to his mother that from now and henceforth forever he and his seed would be at enmity with everyone else descended from his father’s house.

Seeking refuge among the savage tribes of itinerant shepherds and camel-breeders in the southern mountains, Ishmael quickly became their acknowledged leader, fighting his way to power with an audacity and ruthlessness that commanded their admiration and obedience. It was no small matter to bind so many discordant elements into something resembling a nation, but before Hagar’s forceful and fearless son was thirty the hard-riding, fierce-fighting savages of the desert were boasting that they were “Ishmaelites.” The name was respected and feared, by rulers and robbers alike, all the way from the Jordan to the Mediterranean, all the way from Damascus to Gaza. As time went on, the wild new nation became known as “Arabia,” meaning “Men in Ambush.”

The descendants of Isaac, and his more resourceful but less scrupulous son Jacob, after many misfortunes and migrations—including a long, humiliating period of enslavement in Egypt—fought their way back into their “Promised Land,” their western boundary on the world’s busiest sea, their eastern rim within a sling-shot of the domain controlled by the Men in Ambush. If some stupid stranger inquired, “Why do the Jews and Arabs hate each other so bitterly?” he was told, “It is written in the sacred prophecies of both nations that they are destined to be at enmity forever.”

It was commonly understood, therefore, that when the posterity of Father Abraham’s two families met, they neither smiled nor saluted. They never broke bread together; never gave aid, no matter how serious the emergency. They conducted their necessary business briefly and gruffly; and, having brought it to a conclusion, turned away, and spat noisily on the ground. It was not often that they fought, but it was said that on such rare occasions the catamounts crept out into the open to learn new techniques of tooth and claw. Often the contentious children of Abraham quarreled; screaming, gesticulating and reviling; for both of their languages, stemming from a common origin, were rich with invective and ingenious in the contrivance of exquisite insults. Neither nation had ever sent an ambassador to the other’s court. Officially, neither had ever acknowledged the other’s existence.

Not meaning, however, that there was no commerce at all between these mutually contemptuous men. Racial antipathies had not deterred the ardent traders of both nations from venturing across the Jordan to engage in an undercover barter that would have amazed and enraged the ordinary rank-and-file of their respective kinsmen. Jewish merchants, far travelers by nature, quietly forded the river with pack-trains bearing imports from many distant lands, and did not lack for wealthy Arabian customers when they appeared with foreign fabrics of silk and velvet, fine linens, gold ornaments, precious stones, medicinal herbs, spices and other exotics. It was customary, on these occasions, for the negotiations to be conducted with all the sullen impoliteness that the everlasting feud demanded; but the expensive goods did change ownership, and the pack-asses skipped home, under a young moon, freed of their burdens. Had either the Jews or the Arabians been gifted with a sense of humor, all this might have seemed funny.

During the last score of years something resembling a commercial truce had permitted a group of Arabian camel-breeders to bring their incomparably beautiful and expensive animals to the celebrated stock-show and auction held annually on the disused drill-ground near Jerusalem during the Jewish Feast of Pentecost.

Indeed, it was the lure of the Arabians’ superb camels that had lately made this Pentecostal stock-show notable throughout the East. Rich Romans, ever competing with one another in the lavishness of their gaudy turnouts in the proud processions of the Imperial City, would send their stewards to purchase the finest of these majestic creatures, regardless of cost. The Jews, well aware that this uniquely attractive camel-market was responsible for bringing desirable patrons from afar, tried to forget—for this one day of the year—that the coveted camels were Arabian. And the Arabs who owned the camels pretended they didn’t realize—on this one day of the year—that they were doing business in the land of Israel. They growled and scowled and spat—but they brought the camels.

This camel business, profitable alike to the merchants of Jerusalem and the stock-breeders of Arabia, had come to a dramatic end, a year ago. A most unfortunate incident had occurred. The auction, last summer, had attracted an unusually large assembly of well-to-do foreigners. They had come from everywhere; Romans, Egyptians, Damascenes, Cyprians, Greeks from Petra and Askelon. The bidding was reckless and the Arabian camels were bringing unprecedented figures. By custom, the least valuable of the herd were offered first; and so it was that as the afternoon wore on, the excitement increased. In many of the later contests, the spellbound crowd—whose majority had long since been priced out of the market—held its breath in amazement.

The finest beast of the lot was not offered until all the others had been bought. This tall, tawny, pompous three-year-old was clearly the pick of the herd. When, at last, the haughty creature was led forward, two well-groomed men, who had taken no part in the previous sales, shouldered their way through the pack from different directions, and showed a serious interest. Not many men in the crowd recognized either of them; but Demos, the suave Greek auctioneer, knew who they were, and was suddenly weak in the knees. The clean-shaven, middle-aged Roman, with the cloth-of-gold bandeau on his brow and the black eagle on the breast of his tunic, was a purchasing agent for Legate Varus, Commander-in-Chief of the Empire’s Armies in the West. The lean, austere, gray-bearded Jew, in the long, black robe, was Joel, the representative of the immensely wealthy Simeon Maccabee, whose political power in Jewry was responsible for Herod’s strong position on the Judaean throne; for the Maccabee family paid the bulk of the tribute which Rome exacted of the province—and Herod was their man.

Commander Varus, who was distinguished chiefly for his high opinion of himself, had become accustomed to getting what he wanted. Simeon the Maccabee entertained a similar feeling about his own desires. It would be a very awkward situation if the representatives of these eminent men staged a battle in which one of them would be defeated. Wars had risen out of incidents more trivial.

Demos hastily consulted the Arabians, explaining the gravity of the impasse and suggested that they withdraw the camel from the sale. Disappointed but comprehending, they consented. The prize camel was led away, and Demos announced that the Arabs had decided, at the last moment, to keep the handsome king of their herd for the continued improvement of their own stock. This left the sons of Ishmael in a very bad spot indeed. The crowd jeered. There was some stone-throwing. The little party of unpopular Arabians were in no position to defend themselves, and they beat an inglorious retreat.

Upon their return home, the whole matter was laid before King Aretas who decided, promptly and firmly, that the Arabs were not again to participate in any of the Jews’ affairs. That had been a year ago. This summer the camel-breeders had let it be known that they were marketing their valuable herd in Damascus. The announcement carried fast and far; and, as a result, the stock-show at Jerusalem, on the Day of Pentecost, was poorly attended by the people previously counted on to insure its prestige.

As King Aretas sat in counsel with wise old Ilderan, advising him of Herod’s incredible request for a parley at Petra, the latter had said, after a considerable silence between them, “Perhaps he wishes to have our camels brought again to his Pentecostal fair.”

Aretas shook his head slowly.

“No, my good Ilderan. It’s something more important than camels.”

There was no city anywhere quite like Petra. Nobody knew its origin or its age; a thousand years, perhaps. It was known to have sheltered at least four successive civilizations, and had borne as many names. For the past three centuries it had belonged to a wealthy colony of fugitive Greeks who had expensively bestowed upon it an incomparable beauty. It was Athens, minus the slums and the smells.

Petra was more than a city; for it embraced not only an exquisitely contrived municipality, distinguished for the architecture of its baths, theaters, forums, temples, and stately residences, but a broad, enveloping valley whose green meadows and fertile fields were nourished by innumerable gushing springs.

Nature had also made provision for the defense of this self-contained little city-state by encircling it with a ring of precipitous stone mountains, converting it into a natural fortress. Petra could be entered only through two gateways; on the west, where a deep-worn camel-trail began its ambling toward distant Gaza and the coast-road north to Damascus, and on the south, leading to the Red Sea. These approaches were made through narrow, high-walled defiles which a handful of guards could—and often did—defend against bands of reckless marauders. It had been a long time since the city had had to repulse a serious invasion; never, indeed, since its occupation by the Greeks.

Naturally, it had been, through the ages, a much coveted stronghold, populated and re-populated with rich traders, of various tints and tongues, whose dynasties successively fattened and fell, each of them leaving monuments and tombs which their victors wrecked to make room for the more extravagant memorials of their own.

According to what passed for history in Arabia, which had never gone to much bother about keeping records, the most recent invasion of this territory had been made by their own tribesmen, some five hundred years ago, who had thought it their turn to enter and sack the rich old city, then in the hands of a decadent generation of Nabataeans. At small cost to themselves, the Arabs had driven out all the inhabitants who were left from a ruthless slaughter, had carried off everything of any value, and then had wondered what to do with their new acquisition; for they were nomads and had no use for cities.

After an interval of a couple of centuries, during which only the bats and hyenas were in residence, one Andrakos, fleeing for refuge from a Roman invasion with a large company of well-to-do Athenians, offered King Retar of Arabia a great price for the deserted city. Much gratified to have, as neighbors, a new kind of people, who had seen much too much of warfare and might be expected to behave themselves, Retar promised the Greeks that they would never be molested by the Arabians, and published a decree warning his own people that Petra was not to be violated. This injunction they had scrupulously obeyed, not only because King Retar was held in high regard but because the penalty for annoying Petra was a public stoning. Arabia had kept the peace-pact; and, with this comforting guarantee of security, Petra had built the most beautiful city in the world.

As for the current relations of Petra and Arabia it could hardly be said that they had any at all. In the opinion of the Arabs, the Greeks were a queer lot of people who spent their time carving figures out of stone, painting pictures, and reading old scrolls written long ago by men as idle as themselves. Such preoccupations, however unprofitable, were harmless enough, and if the citizens of Petra wanted to fritter away their lives in this manner, it was agreeable with realistic and illiterate Arabia. All that Petra knew about the Arabs was that they raised and rode the most beautiful and high-spirited horses to be found anywhere on earth, that their magnificent camels—too expensive for draught duty—were bred for showy parades in which they marched accoutered with silver ornaments, that the long-fibered wool of the high mountains was eagerly sought by the most famous weavers of Caesarea, Corinth, and Rome, and that their interest in anything artistic was completely non-existent. Aside from the fact that the bodily temperature of the Greeks and Arabs was maintained at approximately the same level they had nothing in common and regarded each other with a condescension not unmixed with pity.

Upon the accession of Aretas to the Arabian throne (a venerable cedar chest covered with the spliced white pelts of two long-haired goats), a richly caparisoned deputation from Petra had come to pay neighborly respects. For all parties concerned it was a pleasant visit. The pundits from Petra were shown every available hospitality. Their gift to the young King was a richly illuminated scroll containing Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War; and, to show his appreciation, Aretas sent the aged Governor of Petra home on a tall, sleek, snobbish camel named Retar, in honor of the Arabian King who had had such amicable dealings with the Greeks in an earlier day. When, some weeks after the coronation, it was amusingly reported to Aretas that Retar had proved unmanageable, he replied, “That makes us even.”

Chief Counsellor Ilderan, who had something of an instinct for statesmanship and was canny enough to take a long view of international relations, had sometimes urged Aretas to pay a visit to Petra.

“The time may come, sire,” Ilderan had said, “when it might be to our advantage to have had a closer acquaintance with these people.”

“Very well, Ilderan,” Aretas had replied. “Sometime we will do that.” But the young King had plenty of pressing problems on his hands. He had never found time to visit Petra, nor had he any inclination to place himself at a disadvantage in the company of men whose manner of life and thought was so foreign to his own. One day Ilderan, still nourishing the hope for a closer friendship with the Greeks, remarked that Herod and his sons were said to be frequent visitors in Petra.

“That makes me even less eager to go there,” Aretas had replied, almost gruffly. “If the King of the Jews has found favor with the Governor of Petra—all the more reason why we should keep our distance.”

It was high noon when the Arabian cavalcade by a circuitous route reached the southern gateway into Petra. A brightly uniformed detachment met the expected guests at the pass and conducted them through the fortified defile.

After a three-mile ride on a well-kept road, flanked by green pastures, orchards, and widely spaced villas of exquisite architecture, the visitors climbed a long hill, reining in at the summit to face a breath-taking view of the white marble city. There they dismounted to rest their horses. Aretas and Ilderan sauntered a little way apart and for some moments silently surveyed the beautiful panorama below them.

King Herod’s encampment, easily identifiable, had already been set up in a spacious park at the center of the city. It monopolized at least three quarters of the park. The colorful tents and gay banners moved Aretas to mutter that it was a more gaudy show than he had expected of the ever dolorous Jews.

“That is the Roman touch, sire,” observed Ilderan. “Herod does not forget how he came by his kingship.”

“Aye,” rumbled Aretas. “It was a lucky day for that Idumean upstart when his foolhardy father stopped the Egyptian arrow intended for Cassius.”

“I have often wondered, sire,” drawled old Ilderan, “whether Cassius might have been so generous with his gratitude had he known how much wealth these Idumeans would acquire in Judaea.”

“It’s never too late for the Empire to rectify a mistake of generosity,” said Aretas.

“True—but there’s no hurry. Herod took over a Jerusalem built of sun-baked brick and is refashioning it in granite and marble. Old Augustus should be willing to let him do that, at the Jews’ expense. Besides”—continued Ilderan—“Judaea pays an exorbitant tribute. Why should the Emperor send an army in to kill the goose that lays gold eggs?”

“Even so; Herod’s nights must be troubled by bad dreams. ... Shall we proceed into the city, Ilderan?”

The old Counsellor did not assent promptly. His brow was furrowed. Pointing toward the Jews’ encampment with his riding-whip, he remarked, “Herod has occupied all but a corner of the park, sire. Doubtless he expects us to content ourselves with what remains of it. Such an idea would become him, I daresay.”

“Let us not give him that satisfaction,” growled Aretas. “We will pitch our tents where we are—on this hill-top. Agreed?”

Ilderan nodded approval. Beckoning to Zendi, the popular young Captain of the Royal Guard, Aretas gave the order. Noting the sudden disappointment in Zendi’s face, he added, “After our camp is in order, you and your men are at liberty to ride down into the city.”

There was a spontaneous murmur of pleasure from the tough young cavalrymen, which prompted the King to announce, sternly, “You will remember that we are guests here. Zendi, you are to hold your men strictly to account for their behavior! ... And—one thing more: There is to be no quarreling with the Jews!”

Zendi raised his hand for permission to speak.

“Should the Jews attack us, Your Majesty, what shall I tell my men to do?”

King Aretas swung into his saddle before replying.

“In that case, Zendi,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulder, “your men will know what to do—without being told.” There was a concerted shout of laughter. Even Aretas, who rarely smiled, pulled a reluctant grin as he rode away in the lead of his amused Counsellors. Ilderan, riding beside him now, resumed their conversation about Herod.

“Of course, sire, he cannot help realizing the instability of his provincial throne. He proves his apprehension by the frequency of his journeys to visit the Emperor—and the fact that his sons spend most of their time in Rome.”

“The Jews probably object to that,” surmised Aretas.

“Naturally, sire; but Herod is in greater need of the Emperor’s favor than the good opinion of the Jews, who would despise him, no matter what he did—or left undone. ... All that flamboyant display of Roman trinkets represents Herod’s fear—rather than his admiration—of Augustus.”

On the level now and four abreast, the Arabians quickened their speed and swept through the suburbs of Petra, presently drawing up before the stately palace of Sosthenes the Governor where Aretas and his Council were ceremoniously received. Sosthenes seemed flustered.

“I trust Your Majesty may find ample room in the park for your encampment,” he said, with an apologetic smile which Aretas made no sign of interpreting. It was evident that the taciturn King of Arabia, whatever he might think of the King of the Jews, was not disposed to exhibit his feelings for the entertainment of this smooth-tongued Greek. “And if there is not sufficient camping-space in the park,” continued Sosthenes, uneasily, “we will see to it that your retinue does not lack for hospitality.”

“We have already encamped, my lord,” said Aretas—“on the high plateau south of the city. Our people prefer the open spaces. Will you advise King Herod that Arabia is at his service?”

“He awaits you, Your Majesty.” Sosthenes’ tone indicated his relief that an awkward situation had been nicely disposed of. “If it is agreeable, your conference will be held here in our council-chamber.” With a deep bow, he led the way to a high-domed, marble-walled room, luxuriously furnished with huge upholstered divans arranged in two semi-circles fronting a massive teakwood table, at either end of which stood a tall-backed, gold-covered, throne-like chair. The Arabians had not long to wait. Attended by a dozen venerable members of the Jewish Sanhedrin, Herod strutted in. Stiff bows and crisp amenities were exchanged. The Kings took their places in the tall chairs. The Counsellors and the Sanhedrin sat. Facing each other, with calm, steady-eyed curiosity, the rulers of Judaea and Arabia presented a striking contrast in costume, bearing, and physique.

Herod was urbane, suave, quite the man of large affairs. He was sixty and paunchy, and there were pendulous pouches under his experienced eyes. It was apparent that the paunch and the pouches were decorations won in courageous combat with nourishing food and rich beverages. His abundant thatch of graying hair—close-cropped after the Roman manner—glistened with scented unguents. His beard was short and well-groomed, a compromise between the patriarchal whiskers of Jerusalem and the cleanly shaved jowls of Rome. His robe was of fine-spun white linen, trimmed with purple at the throat, cuffs, and skirt-hem. Herod had the self-assured posture of a man who had been everywhere, and always with the right people; who had seen everything, and always from a reserved seat.

Aretas was carelessly dressed in a brown, travel-worn cashmere burnous, the skirt of which was parted revealing his brown goat-skin riding-breeches and thong-laced boots. The only touch of color on his clothing was the ancient crest of the Ishmaelites, an oval patch of blue silk appliquéd to the left breast of his burnous. In this field of blue were the well-known devices seen on Arabia’s banners—a slim, gold-embroidered moon-crescent, half-circling a silver star—and pierced, in the form of an X, by a white sword and a shepherd’s crook, the distinctive symbol of Arabian royalty. Aretas did not relax in his chair but sat rigidly erect with the air of a man accustomed to brief parleys, laconic statements, swift agreements, and an unceremonious adjournment.

In his early fifties, Arabia’s King was lean as a leopard, tough as a bowstring, and as tanned as an old saddle. The hood of his burnous had been pushed back from his deep-seamed forehead, showing a tousled mop of grizzled hair. He, too, wore a short beard, but nobody had trimmed it that morning, much less anointed it with fragrant oils. There was nothing of smooth statesmanship in the face or bearing of this Arabian. Except for the royal crest, he was not accoutered like a king, nor did he have the manner of one accustomed to the adroit thrust and parry of diplomacy. Yet there were the deep-set black eyes to be reckoned with, eyes inured to long vistas and well-versed in the lore of the sky.

Having spent most of his life indoors, Herod—cannily competent in studying the minds and moods of similarly sheltered men, peered into the fathomless eyes of Aretas, and the carefully rehearsed speech he had obviously meant to make seemed to need revision.

“Your Excellency,” began Herod, measuring his words, “we invited you here to discuss a matter of grave concern to both our nations.” He paused for some response; at least a slight lifting of the Arabian’s brows. But the face of Aretas was impassive, giving no sign of surprise or curiosity.

“We have recently returned from Rome with disturbing news,” continued Herod. “Plans are rapidly taking shape for a Roman invasion into the northeast that will sweep this coast so bare of everything valuable that when it is ended the very vultures will die of starvation. Neither of us—and you may be sure that we will both be involved in this tragedy—can hope to withstand such an attack; but, firmly resolved to unite in a defense of our countries, we might exhibit enough force to dissuade Tiberius——”

“Tiberius!” broke in Aretas. “Is Tiberius not leading the Army in the West?”

“Not at present,” replied Herod, pleased to be able to instruct his conferee from the hinterland. Tiberius had been recalled to Rome, some months ago, to be co-regent with Augustus. The Western Army in charge of the subjugation of the German tribes and the occupation of all Gaul, was given to Varus who had now been completely overwhelmed; put to utter rout; destroyed! “It is the worst defeat that the Empire has ever experienced. Never again will the Romans cross the Rhine. If they are to recover their lost prestige, at home and abroad, they must extend their power in the East—and the North. And our countries are on the highway to Damascus.”

Aretas frowned studiously but made no reply, though the Jew gave him plenty of time for a rejoinder. Perhaps, mused Herod, the remote Arabian does not fully realize the predicament of the Romans, and their necessity to strike a blow—or invite disaster. He decided to post Aretas on some recent history that might have escaped him. The speech lasted for a full half hour, Aretas listening without comment.

Augustus—Herod went on—had made a great Emperor; no doubt of that. In spite of the fact that he never had had any health, at all, he had done much for Rome. But now he was old, and so ill that everybody knew about it. The reins of government had been slipping rapidly through his rheumatic fingers. He had lost his grip on the Senate. The rabble was restless. Of course the trouble was largely fiscal. Gone were the days when—in need of money to finance a fortnight’s free feasting for Rome’s improvident thousands—an expedition could be sent to raid Sicily, or Crete, or Cyprus, or Macedonia; returning with valuable slaves, grain, lumber, leather, and gold. True, the provinces could still be sacked and pillaged, again and again; but the Romans had less and less to show for it.

“You remember, don’t you, Your Excellency, how Augustus was so hard up—a few years ago—that he required every man, in all of the provinces tributary to Rome, to pay a poll-tax?” Herod snorted with disgust. “It was a paltry thing to do, the act of a miser or a bankrupt. The provinces were already taxed to the limit of their endurance. And then this bewildered old Emperor childishly decides to screw a poll-tax out of the hungry provincials! He sought to clothe the ridiculous affair with dignity by pretending the main idea was to take a census; every man commanded to show up, on a certain day, in the place of his birth—wherever that was—and have himself enumerated. But that never fooled anybody. Augustus didn’t care how many people were controlled from Rome. All he was interested in was their wretched little five farthings. Some of our poor people had to travel so much as a week’s journey to obey the edict.”

“I had forgotten,” said Aretas. “It did not affect my people. The Emperor would hardly chase an Arabian through the mountains for five farthings.”

“I’m not so sure that he wouldn’t,” remarked Herod, with a shrug. “He will—this time! Tiberius will want your sheep and cattle and camels; and your daughters, too. There is only one way out for us, Your Excellency. Let us make a treaty—and stand together. Tiberius will think twice before he risks another defeat.”

“Do you imagine, sire,” asked Aretas, “that Tiberius could be made to believe that the Jews and Arabs had concluded an alliance, after many centuries of hatred?”

“I had thought of that.” Herod hitched at his big chair, which did not move an inch, and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. “I, too, had thought of that. Tiberius will need sound proof that our alliance is genuine.”

“Have you something to suggest?” inquired Aretas.

“A tangible unity. I am told that you have a marriageable daughter. I have an unmarried son.”

Aretas winced, and shook his head.

“My daughter,” he muttered, “would not like that.”

“Nor would my son,” said Herod, with equal candor. “But for what reason are Princes and Princesses fêted and sheltered; for what reason are they fed ices cooled with snow brought from the mountains by swift runners with lungs on fire; and to what end do courtiers bow before them—if not that when the day comes on which they must subordinate their own desires for the good of their country, they shall pay their debt cheerfully and in full?”

“Perhaps this may apply to your son, my lord, but not to my daughter. She has lived simply, even frugally, as becomes an Arabian of whatever position. Arnon has had no ices in summer.”

“Be that as it may,” said Herod, crisply. “Ices or no ices, your daughter loves her country, I think. She would sacrifice much rather than see Arabia laid waste. Nor would she suffer hardship at the hands of my son, Antipas. He is a noble young fellow, gracious, kind, wealthy. They might even come to love each other, though that, of course, is unimportant.”

“It would not be unimportant to my daughter,” said Aretas. “Besides—she is already in love with a young man of our own people.”

Herod stroked his chin with the backs of his plump fingers, and meditated.

“Has her betrothal been announced?”

“No,” admitted Aretas.

“That is good,” nodded Herod. He clapped his hands and an aide appeared. “We will dine,” he said.

Aretas was not hungry, but it would have been impolitic to say so.

The Counsellors were in session all night. Aretas set forth their dilemma, expressing it as his opinion that Herod knew what he was talking about and had not exaggerated the threatened disaster.

Dumah made bold to say, “I had rather be enslaved by the Romans than allied to the Jews.”

“As for you, yourself, yes,” said Tema, “but how about your wife and daughters? The Romans are shameless butchers!”

“But how can we be certain that there is to be an invasion?” scoffed Dumah. “This fellow Sosthenes would be directly in the path of it—and he doesn’t appear to be much upset.”

“Well—he will be,” muttered Tema, “when Herod tells him how much is expected of him—in gold!”

“Ah—so that’s why we’re meeting in Petra; is it?” queried Adbeel.

“It’s a good enough reason,” said Tema, wearily. “No—it’s quite useless to debate this matter. We’ve been over all the ground—and there’s no way out. An alliance of the Jews and Arabians is quite as distasteful to Herod as it is to us. He knows the danger, or he would never have made this proposal. We may be sure of that!”

“It is asking too much of our Princess,” said Adbeel. “She will have a wretched life with this young Jewish scamp.”

“Doubtless,” agreed Naphish, “but at least she will live.”

“I think she would prefer to die,” muttered Adbeel.

“But that is not the point,” said Mishma. “If the Princess marries Antipas she will be saving her country. When this is explained to her, she will consent.”

There was a long interval of moody silence, broken by Jetur who ventured to raise the question that was on everyone’s mind: What would young Zendi think of all this?

Ilderan was prompt with a reply.

“My son will be deeply grieved,” he said, slowly, “but he, too, loves Arabia.”

Aretas nodded his head, without looking up.

“Is there anything further to be said?” he asked; and when no one spoke, he rose, walked toward the door, and dispatched the fateful message to Herod. The Council adjourned, but not to sleep. Breakfast was disposed of shortly before dawn. The tents were quickly packed. By the time the Jews in the park were astir, the Arabian camp-site on the hill was deserted.

The journey home was swift; and, for the most part, silent. At dusk on the evening of the fourth day of hard travel they separated gloomily.

Arnon was anxiously waiting at the entrance to the encampment. Aretas dismounted slowly, heavily; a haggard old man.

“Father!” exclaimed Arnon. “What has happened to distress you so? Are you hurt?”

Aretas took her by the hand, as if she were a little child, and silently led her into the tent. When they were seated together on a divan, Arnon summoned a servant and ordered supper to be brought for her father, but Aretas shook his head. Drawing her close, he gazed sadly into her wide, frightened eyes and blurted out the story. Arabia had made an alliance with the Jews. It was the only way of escaping a Roman invasion that would utterly destroy both countries.

“But—if you have made the alliance, and have saved our country,” said Arnon, hopefully, “why are you so down-hearted?”

“Because—the alliance provides for a royal marriage of Arabia and Judaea.”

Arnon gave a little gasp and her face paled.

“Does that mean—me?” she asked, weakly.

“Can you do this, my child, for Arabia?”

Closing her eyes, Arnon drew a long, shuddering breath, and slowly relaxed into her father’s arms. After an agonizing moment, she straightened and looked up bravely into his deep-lined face.

“For Arabia—yes—my father,” she said, barely above a whisper.

They sat in silence for a little while. Arnon patted him tenderly on the cheek. Swallowing convulsively in a dry throat, she murmured, “May I go now, Father?”

Aretas released her and she walked toward the door of her room with the short, groping steps of the blind. He watched her with brooding sorrow. He would gladly have given his life to save her this painful martyrdom.

If it was necessary for the Arabs and the Jews to guarantee the genuineness of their alliance by arranging an international marriage it was equally important that the wedding occur without delay, for Tiberius could not afford to wait very long after the catastrophe to Roman arms in the West before attempting elsewhere a recovery of the Empire’s ailing prestige.

Nor was this royal wedding an event that might be conducted quietly. It must be distinguished for its pomp and flamboyant extravagance. The full military power of Judaea and Arabia was to be put on exhibition so that Tiberius, when apprized of it, would realize that these passionate little nations had resolved not only to stand together but had the strength to make their unity formidable.

Of course the responsibility for this impressive spectacle would fall more heavily upon Herod than Aretas, for the Arabians were inexperienced in showmanship. At this game, Herod was skilled. He had a natural talent for it and his long acquaintance with Roman pageantry had made him fully conversant with its tactics.

The big show would be held in Jerusalem immediately after the wedding in Arabia. With amazing speed Herod assembled his widely scattered troops, secured the financial backing of the wealthy guilds, and even won the timid support of Annas, the High Priest, who never liked to take sides in a political issue until sure which way the cat was going to jump.

The skeletonized “Legion” of Roman soldiers stationed in Jerusalem, ostensibly for police duty but really to keep the restless Jews in remembrance of their provincial status, merely joked about Herod’s bombastic show until the habitually sequestered Jewish troops began mobilizing in surprising numbers on the unkempt and disused drill-grounds in the Kedron Valley. Fully accoutered, they were marching boldly through the city, en route from Joppa, Caesarea, Hebron, Jericho, and remote Capernaum in Galilee.

That, complained young Legate Julian to his Centurions, was what ailed the Jews: they never knew when they were whipped. The Sanhedrin made deep bows to the Empire’s representatives, and retired to plot. Every evening at sunset the faithful appeared at the Wailing Wall to howl hopelessly over their subjugation, and strolled back to their cellars to sharpen their knives and spin tougher bow-strings.

Apprehensive of a dangerous incident, and anxious to head it off by polite appeasement—for he had been sent to Jerusalem to keep the peace at all costs—Julian went to Herod. Why all these military maneuvers? Herod smiled innocently. There was to be a wedding, he said. His son Antipas was marrying the young Princess of Arabia. Yes, yes, Julian knew all about that, and said it would be quite agreeable to the Empire, he thought, if a detachment of Jewish patrolmen marched in the wedding procession, but—

“A detachment!” broke in Herod, disappointedly.

“Well—a Legion, then,” conceded Julian, “if that would better please Your Excellency; but we see no occasion for a parade of catapults weighing two thousand pounds! Is that customary—at a wedding?”

“It would be an interesting novelty,” reflected Herod, in a tone of childish wistfulness. “Many of our people will be surprised to know that we have catapults.”

“Our people will be surprised too!” exclaimed Julian. “And if a large display is made of such heavy weapons, Your Excellency may soon have a more serious use for them.”

Herod smiled enigmatically, patted a yawn, and drummed absently on the table with his knuckles. Julian dourly accepted his dismissal and rose to go.

“In any case,” pursued Herod, “they are good catapults, and they are ours, and they are here! It would be no easy matter to bring as large ones, or as many, from Rome.”

Slightly stunned by this unexpected impudence, Julian stammered, “I am aware of that, sire.”

“And so is Tiberius,” added Herod, recklessly.

“Meaning that Your Excellency would like me to inform the Emperor?”

“As you please, Julian. You will anyway, you know.”

This raw arrogance was something new to the Legate whom Herod had always treated with a suave, if insincere, deference. It was evident that the crafty Jew intended to gamble this time for very high stakes.

“The Emperor may suspect that this wedding is primarily a display of defensive armor!”

“How quick you are, Julian,” drawled Herod, now candidly contemptuous. “You are wasted as a mere peace officer. You should be a Consul, at the very least.” He rose and bowed ceremoniously. “Forgive us if we have to let you go now. We have another appointment; and you, doubtless, have business of your own.”

As the troubled young Legate made his inglorious exit from the spacious gold and blue audience chamber, Prince Antipas lounged in through the King’s private entrance. Herod glanced up, nodded amiably, and resumed his writing. His face expressed satisfaction with his favorite son; something of pride, too; for Antipas—not always so docile—was showing himself surprisingly co-operative in this affair of the Arabian nuptials. Not meaning that he was enthusiastic—which would have been too much to expect—but quietly acquiescent.

Of Herod’s three sons by his much loved Mariamne, Antipas was his pet. Antipas was respectful, courteous, good to look upon, of better than average height, with a handsome face, an athletic figure, and the confident carriage of a soldier. The firm discipline of the Roman Military Academy was stamped on him. At twenty-five, his slow, agnostic smile gave more than a hint of the fashionable cynicism which characterized the indolent crew of rich men’s sons who gambled all day at the baths and banqueted all night in the best possible places. Antipas was already an experienced man of the world.

As for his other sons by Mariamne, Herod had had but little occasion for pride in them. Archelaus, the eldest, was a contentious fellow, forever getting himself into embarrassing brawls. Philip, the youngest, whom the family invariably referred to as “Poor Philip,” was so listless and impractical that he even had much difficulty in holding the government job his eminent father had found for him in Rome at the cost of much coaxing—and a bit of bribery. And, as if Poor Philip were not sufficiently weighted with handicaps, he had allowed himself to be led into an unhappy marriage by Herodias—a cousin twice removed—who was his senior by ten years, and a century older in experience. A widow, Herodias had brought along a pert young daughter, Salome, whose adventures were common talk. Herod could not be proud of Poor Philip. But Antipas! Here was a son worthy of all the costly investments that had been made in him!

Noting that his father was occupied, or pretended to be, the well-favored Prince strolled across to the high bank of cases which lined the eastern wall, drew out a new, heavily gilded scroll, read the title, and chuckled audibly. Herod regarded him with interest.

“Did the old man give you this?” inquired Antipas, amused.

“If you are referring to the aged Emperor Augustus,” reproved Herod, “he did.”

“Gave it to you—personally?” nagged Antipas.

Herod hitched uneasily in his chair, as to admit that the ostentatious scroll was one of a large number presented to Consuls, Prefects, Governors, Provincial Kings—and Senators, too, perhaps.

“I’ll wager a hundred shekels that Your Majesty hasn’t read a line of it!” taunted Antipas; and, when his father had shrugged, added, “You’d better, sire. This is Virgil’s new eulogy to Augustus, extolling his brave deeds. He calls it The Aeneid.”

“We shall have to peruse it,” consented Herod, absently.

“Indeed you will, sire!” Antipas made pretense of seriousness. “You may have to take an examination on it sometime.” He flipped the gaudy scroll back into the case, sauntered to the King’s dais, flung himself into a chair—and yawned. Herod put down his stylus and smiled benevolently.

“And how are you amusing yourself, my son? We hope the time does not hang too heavily on your hands while you wait for your marriage.”

“Not heavily at all, sire. Your Majesty will recall that Salome, who is very good company, returned with us on our ship, for a visit.”

“Specifically—she came to represent Poor Philip’s family at the wedding,” amended Herod. “Otherwise she would not have been tolerated—much less invited: you may be sure of that!” He lowered his voice, discarded his kingship, and impulsively became a father. “If I were in your place, Antipas, I should arrange not to be seen in public with the little trollop.”

“My niece, sire!” Antipas feigned indignation, but his ironical smirk showed through.

“Niece? Nonsense!” growled Herod. “Since when did Poor Philip’s notorious step-daughter become your niece?”

“Technically, she is my niece, sire; and Your Majesty’s grand-daughter. Does that not entitle her to some courteous consideration?”

“Not from you! The women of the court can attend to Salome’s wants. The Queen will arrange for her entertainment.”

“But Mother does not care for her,” said Antipas, sadly.

“Not much wonder!” muttered Herod. “But—however that may be—you are to have nothing further to do with her! The fact that your half-witted brother married her mother does not obligate you in the least. Your association with this Salome will do you no good; especially now that your heart is in Arabia.”

“Is it?” Instantly Antipas realized that he had overtaxed his royal parent’s patience. He had been sweetly wheedled into returning to wed the Arabian Princess. It had required a deal of coaxing. At first he had loudly protested, and his father had promised him an immediate cash payment of his patrimony. He had shaken his head sorrowfully, and his father had conferred on him the Tetrarchy of Galilee. Finally he had yielded to the King’s importunate pressure. It had placed him in an advantageous position, and he had been trading on it sharply, with all the inconsiderate tyranny of a spoiled invalid. His father’s dark frown warned him now that his impudence had reached a limit.

“It had better be!” rasped Herod, hotly. “This is a serious business! And you are a fool not to realize it!” He rose and paced to and fro, with mounting rage. “You should be in Arabia—at this moment—as I counselled you—making friends with these aliens! I tell you they are no more eager for this wedding than you are! And if you treat it too lightly you may get a dagger between your ribs! Blood-letting is a mere pastime with these Arabians! They never forget an injury or an insult!” The King was breathing heavily as he strode toward the door. “Don’t say I did not warn you!” he shouted.

Arnon was given but little time to brood over coming events. Preparations for the marriage proceeded with breath-taking speed. Every day couriers arrived from Jerusalem to inquire of the Princess; or, more correctly, to report to the Princess what were her wishes in respect to details which, in the opinion of an Arabian, were childishly trivial, but apparently important enough to warrant a laborious journey from the Jewish capital.

The vanguard of servants and equipment began to appear in increasing numbers. Long caravans toiled up the tortuous trail from the valley floor, widening the bridle-path to a hard-beaten road. Skilled Arabian seamstresses and weavers worked in feverish haste on the wedding garments for the Princess and her attendants.

Tactfully, mercifully, Aretas had dispatched Zendi to faraway Corinth on an errand no less important than the conclusion of a pending deal to lease another large parcel of land in the north to war-weary Greeks. It was a relief to Arnon when Zendi, pressed for time, called to say farewell; both of them glad that the leave-taking was done in the presence of their fathers. Arnon couldn’t have borne it, she knew, if they had had their final moment in seclusion. Poor Zendi! He had been so determined to deal manfully with his sorrow that he had hardly raised his eyes to hers when they parted.

The thousand sheep were led to another pasture, and on their grazing-ground an awe-inspiring tented city rose. Soldiers in colorful uniforms made camp with such dexterity and precision that Arnon was forced to admire their skill. They did not squat in small huddles, an Arabian custom, to discuss what procedures were best. They knew exactly what to do. This, thought Arnon, was probably the way everything went in the outside world beyond her untamed but beloved mountains. Though firmly loyal to Arabia and its haphazard way of doing things, she felt a tug of excitement over being made a part of that competent society whose urbane representatives were now demonstrating their disciplined self-assurance.

Now delegations of wealthy Arabian sheiks swept by on their sleek horses, and entered the tents their servants had prepared on the broad plateau, each contingent accompanied by entertainers; minstrels, magicians, field athletes, acrobats, and comedians.

Then came the awaited day of King Herod’s arrival with Prince Antipas, their tall camels resplendent with costly housings and trappings of gold and silver. Proudly, haughtily, the impressive caravan swung past the encampment of King Aretas and came to rest a few hundred yards away. With fluttering heart, Arnon watched her father and the Counsellors greet the party from Jerusalem. It was a dizzying spectacle. King Herod was undeniably a distinguished personage and the Prince was tall and handsome. And there was the High Priest, guessed Nephti, Arnon’s lifetime nurse, who was holding the tent-panel open to see. Doubtless he had come, added Nephti, to conduct the wedding.

“I had not realized it was to be a Jewish wedding,” said Arnon.

“The Jews like ceremonies,” declared Nephti.

“And we don’t?” asked Arnon, childishly.

“Ours is more simple. If you were marrying Zendi—”

“Don’t, Nephti!” murmured Arnon. “You promised me.”

“I am sorry, Princess. I only meant to explain that you would have taken his hand, in the presence of the Counsellors, and promised to obey and serve him, all the days of your life.”

“And will I not be asked to obey and serve Prince Antipas?”

“Of course—but it will take longer, I suppose. The Jews are like that.”

Nephti closed the leather panel as the girl turned aside, soberly. Her intuition read Arnon’s thoughts. These strange people from afar were of immense interest, but they were of another world.

“I had hoped that Queen Mariamne might come,” said Arnon. “You saw no women in the party, Nephti?”

No—the whole event was to be a man’s affair; a political transaction, in which one woman would be included because she was necessary. Gladly would they have done without her, reflected Arnon, if that were possible. The wedding was a confirmation of an international alliance. The treaty had been formally written on a sheet of papyrus, duly signed, and now it must be ratified. Arnon was but so much sealing-wax stamped on an official document. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with a sense of heart-sickening loneliness.

That evening there was a banquet attended by the Kings, the Prince, the High Priest, several ranking members of the Sanhedrin, and the Arabian Counsellors. After an hour’s feasting on the part of the men, Arnon was brought in to be introduced. She felt and looked very small and helpless.

Antipas stepped forward to greet her. He took both her hands in his and smiled down into her timidly upraised eyes. It was an experienced smile that skillfully appraised and evidently approved. For a moment the silence in the tent grew oppressive as they waited for an opinion from the beautiful young Princess. Presently she drew a shy, tremulous smile—and the suspense lifted. They all breathed freely again; and, with the exception of Aretas, exchanged glances of relief and satisfaction. Herod drained his goblet and smacked his lips. It was good wine. And—what was still better—by this time tomorrow the alliance would be an attested fact, and he would be ready—if need be—to confront Tiberius.