Читать книгу The Big Fisherman - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Now that the month of Tishri had come, and the trees were taking on rich colors, Arnon’s homesickness became almost insupportable. Jerusalem was slowly strangling her. But for the understanding sympathy and tenderness of Queen Mariamne, she would have died or gone mad.

Nature had not intended that Arnon should be surrounded by walls. Because her own people were of necessity nomadic they had built no cities. Indeed the Arabians were contemptuous of cities, considering them pestilential prisons, stultifying to both body and spirit.

Every morning, in the far away and long ago, Arnon had risen at dawn to breathe deeply of the invigorating mountain breeze and rejoice in the peace of a silence broken only by the distant tinkle of camel bells. But here in Jerusalem she felt stifled, caged. Late in the morning she would struggle back to consciousness, finding herself hungry for clean, bracing air. The beautifully wrought antique tapestries which curtained her luxurious bed gave off a sickening odor of mold and the exquisite mosaics leaked the sour stench of disintegrating plaster.

Added to the tomblike atmosphere of her spacious bed-chamber was a conglomeration of city smells seeping in from the outside, smells of old and decaying things, old walls, old towers, old markets, old stables, old cobbled streets. There were plenty of distasteful sights, sounds, and scents in this ancient city, but the worst thing of all was the stagnant, fetid air.

Every day now, Arnon woke nauseated, though the servants—who found nothing wrong with the air—graciously assured the foreign Princess that her morning sickness was due to her condition, always adding, piously, “For which the Lord God of Israel be praised!”

On this tenth day of Tishri, Arnon tugged herself loose from a nostalgic dream of riding swiftly beside her father in a noisy mountain storm, galloping, galloping hard, quite out of breath, with big splashes of warm rain pelting them. Half-suffocated and drenched with perspiration, she gazed up dully into the smiling eyes of the Queen.

Mariamne was the most beautiful woman Arnon had ever seen. She was in her early fifties but seemed much younger for by her abstemiousness she had retained a youthful figure. She had all the traditional dignity of a Queen but none of the arrogance. Arnon had known from the first moment of their meeting that she was going to like Mariamne. The Queen had no daughter and Arnon had never known a mother. Their friendship was instant and mutual.

But in spite of the affection she felt for her charming mother-in-law, Arnon had extended no confidences. Her father had warned her to guard her tongue in the presence of these people. “Spies are always friendly, and free to share their secrets with you.” Sometimes it had been difficult to observe this reticence, her intuition assuring her that Mariamne’s devotion to her was sincere.

“How are you, my child?” asked the Queen, gently.

“Very warm,” mumbled Arnon—“and a bit sick, as usual. I shall feel better when I’ve had something cold to drink. You are up early, Your Majesty. Have you had your breakfast?”

Summoning a servant to bring the Princess a goblet of cold pomegranate juice, Mariamne sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I am not to have breakfast this morning, my dear. This is a fast day.”

“All day?” Arnon’s eyes widened incredulously.

“Until evening. Then there will be a bountiful feast. You are not expected to do any fasting, but we will want you to attend the banquet.”

Arnon sat up in bed, pushed her tousled black hair out of her eyes, and inquired what this fast was about.

“It is the Day of Atonement,” explained Mariamne. “Of all our special occasions this one means the most. It really begins the day before, with all the faithful Jews going about making things right with one another, doing neglected duties, paying their debts, returning things borrowed, and asking forgiveness for wrongs done and hot words spoken. Damaged friendships are mended, estrangements are cleared up. And then—today—with clean hands and a right spirit—everyone brings a gift to the Temple, and receives a blessing.”

Arnon’s eyes shone.

“It is very beautiful!” she whispered. “May I do it, too? It would be a relief—to go to the Temple—and be blessed.” She bowed her head dejectedly. “My heart has been so bitter.” Slowly she raised tear-filled eyes. “Your Majesty, I have been very unhappy.”

Mariamne slipped an arm around her, compassionately.

“Arnon, dear, would you like to call me ‘Mother’ instead of ‘Your Majesty’? Don’t do it if—if it takes an effort,” she added, “but it would please me.”

With that, Arnon’s tears overflowed and she sobbed like a little child.

“I should like to,” she murmured brokenly. “You have been so good to me. I want you to be my mother. That’s the way I think of you.”

Mariamne drew her closer.

“Tell me, Arnon,” she said softly, “has the Prince been unkind to you?”

Arnon indecisively shook her head, but the pent-up tears ran unchecked. When she could speak she said, “No—he has not mistreated me—Mother. I see very little of him, you know. But the Prince is a busy man. He can’t be spending all of his time entertaining me.”

“Men are always busy, my dear.” The Queen’s usually placid voice showed a trace of asperity. “There are the games at Gath and a new Greek play at Askelon—and other important engagements.” She paused for a moment. Dropping her tone of raillery, she went on, “Our Antipas is really a sweet boy. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt a fly. But he is selfish and spoiled. How could it be otherwise? Too much money; too much leisure.”

“And too many people wanting to win his favor,” added Arnon.

“Sometimes I have thought,” said Mariamne, soberly, “that a baby Prince should be left on the doorstep of an honest, frugal, hard-working family, and brought up as their son until he is about—”

“Twenty?” suggested Arnon, when the Queen had seemed at a loss for the right figure.

“Forty!” amended Mariamne. “Then he should be brought to the throne, knowing what his people need. As it stands, there is nobody in the Kingdom quite so ignorant of his duties as the ruler himself. He lives in a different world.” After an interval of silence, she asked, abruptly, “Is anything else wrong, dear?”

“Almost everything,” confessed Arnon. “Everything but you! It may be my own fault. I cannot be myself here. In my own country I am happy and free. I love to ride. The shepherds wave a hand and smile as I pass by and I wave my hand and smile too. We are friends. Their wives and daughters weave gay scarves for me and I visit them when they are sick. Often I stop at their tents and play with the little children.”

“That is as it should be,” approved Mariamne. “And they are not in awe of you, as the King’s daughter?”

“They call me ‘Princess,’ but when we play they do not throw the game away to humor me. Maybe that is what ails a royal family: they are allowed to win all the games.... Here in Jerusalem, I am a Princess; always, every hour, a Princess. I am unused to these stiff ceremonies; people bowing worshipfully—and backing out of the room. I have to change my costumes a half dozen times a day, and none of them is comfortable. Everything is strange—and I am becoming a stranger even to myself.” Her voice broke completely. “Please—may I not go home—just for a little while?”

There was a long delay before Mariamne replied.

“I wish you might, Arnon. Doubtless the King would consent if it were not for this military alliance. If it should come to the ears of the Emperor—”

“I understand,” said Arnon, weakly. “Let us think no more about it.... And—I should like to go with you to the Temple. Is the Prince going with us?”

Mariamne frowned and shook her head.

“Antipas set off early this morning for the north. You know he has been made the ruler of Galilee.”

“Yes, Mother. He did not tell me, but I heard a friend congratulate him on it, at our wedding. Are we to live in Galilee?”

“Part of the time, perhaps,” said Mariamne, uncertainly. “Antipas is a restless fellow. He does not like to stay long in one place. The King is building a Galilean embassy here in the city. Antipas will spend a couple of months every year in Jerusalem, attending to provincial business. He loves Rome, and I daresay he will want to be there occasionally. At the moment he is infatuated with the idea of building a beautiful villa on the western shore of the Lake Gennesaret in Galilee.”

Arnon brightened.

“That would be lovely!” she exclaimed. “I have heard so much of that beautiful Sea of Galilee. Perhaps there would be sailing!”

Mariamne did not share Arnon’s sudden enthusiasm.

“I doubt whether the Prince would be interested in sailing. There are some warm springs on the western shore. Antipas, who loves bathing, will build commodious bath houses in connection with his villa. I think he hopes to induce a few of his wealthy Roman friends to build villas there.”

Arnon’s interest gradually faded. Instinctively she gathered that the Queen had thought it time for her to know what manner of life she should anticipate. But perhaps Antipas had not included her in all—or any—of his plans. If he had expected her to live with him in Galilee, he might have inquired what sort of home she would like.

“Has the Prince planned the villa?” she asked.

Mariamne stirred uneasily, reluctant to discuss the matter.

“Perhaps,” she said. “He spent all last week in Petra, inspecting a few of the beautiful marble villas built by wealthy Athenians. He may have told you.”

“He tells me nothing,” said Arnon.

Mariamne sighed deeply and rose to her feet.

“If you wish to go with us to the Temple, dear, you should be ready at noon. Your maid will tell you what you are to wear. His Majesty expects to leave the palace promptly at midday. It has been announced.”

“I hope I shall be prepared for the blessing,” said Arnon, wistfully. “I am much in need of it. Is there anything I should do? I’m afraid I do not owe anything that should be paid back, and I have spoken no hot words, though I have had them in my mind which is probably just as bad. Perhaps if my husband were here I might ask him to forgive me for all the unkind things I have thought about him.”

The Queen drew a slow, sober smile, and shook her head.

“In that case,” she said, quietly, “it is just as well that he isn’t here.”

It was traditionally considered a misfortune in royal households if a titled infant was a girl. The father of the hapless child was expected to be grumpy and the mother was ashamed of herself. But nobody seemed much upset over the sex of Princess Arnon’s baby; certainly not Arnon herself whose experience with one Prince had not made her eager to produce another.

Antipas was up in Galilee when it happened. But for a handful of servants, he had been spending his time alone. The new villa, on which more than two hundred skilled stone masons had been engaged for five months, had risen a few feet above the massive foundation. One could easily imagine its oncoming beauty, even in the bewildering clutter of construction. The great oval pool, to be related to the house by a series of graceful arcades, had been completed—all but the mosaic lining, a tedious business, to be postponed until the Prince should be absent for a season. The marble flagging that bounded the pool, the exquisitely sculptured balustrades, and the commodious dressing-rooms were quite finished. Antipas had given much attention to the architecture and appointments of these sumptuous rooms, furnishing them so lavishly that he was using them for his living quarters. The pool had every way surpassed his expectations. The warm water, reputed to be of invigorating quality, poured generously from stone lions’ mouths in a steady flow that promised to be endless.

It was a great privilege, reflected Antipas, to be the ruler of the Province of Galilee. True, he had not yet become acquainted with any of his subjects, nor had he given a moment’s thought to his executive duties, whatever they might be. He knew very little about the Galileans, except what everybody knew; that they were a stolid, inoffensive, pious people, who minded their own small business, and had no ambitions to make their country known abroad. They grew their own grain, wine, flax, and wool. They fished in the Lake Gennesaret. Their men were adept at fashioning articles of household furniture, sometimes showing themselves to be excellent craftsmen. Their women wove serviceable fabrics for domestic uses. Their lives were self-contained and, in consequence, narrowly circumscribed. They almost never traveled beyond their own communities, except on the occasion of the annual “Passover” when considerable numbers of them made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem where a week was spent in the performance of religious rites. Customarily they took along some of the products of their lathes and looms, which they offered for sale at the bazaars. They wore no distinctive costume, but were readily identified in the city by their accent and colloquialisms. They were a bit self-conscious and shy in the presence of urbane strangers, aware that they were considered outlanders.

Antipas felt that the task of governing these simple-hearted country folk would not be arduous. Doubtless their trivial disagreements would be quietly settled among themselves; and, as for possible entanglements with the other provinces, the Galileans, exporting and importing nothing of any value, would not be likely to invoke judicial aid. He had little or nothing to do, his wealth would enable him to live in luxury. Whenever he wearied of his lethargy, he could easily trek to Caesarea and sail for Rome.

Life in Galilee was still a novelty. Antipas had fallen in love with the entrancing view to be had from the eastern portico of the pool. At his command the servants habitually roused him early to see the dawn come in. It was a glorious pageant, with the steep banks of cumulus clouds transformed into symmetrical garlands of gold as the sun illumined them from behind the distant mountain range, while the beautiful Lake Gennesaret—which everybody, except the natives, called “The Sea of Galilee”—reflected the deep blue of a farther sky.

Then would come the dramatic moment when the sun itself would mount regally into the open, stripping the clouds of their gold and arraying them with silver. The slanting sails of the little fishing boats would flash brightly. The tall tower of the Roman fort, a mile to the north, and the squat dome of the Jewish synagogue, a mile farther in the heart of Capernaum, would be flatteringly high-lighted. The untidy clutter of fishermen’s shacks and wharves on the lake-shore would seem less ugly than picturesque. And the ruler of Galilee, suffused with a sense of well-being, would send for his breakfast.

Only one thing was lacking; congenial company. And on this eighteenth day of Adar that want was supplied. The arrival of Mark Varus was not a surprise, though Antipas had not expected him so soon. He had promised to come in midsummer. Attended by a half-dozen servants from home and a pack-train of baggage which had been disembarked at Caesarea, Mark had shown up in the late afternoon, warm, dusty, and noisy with his approval of all these impressive building operations. Antipas hugged him with fervor, then picked him up and threw him headlong into the pool where he wriggled himself out of most of his clothing, his host following along the ledge with a pike-staff, fishing out the discarded garments as they accumulated in the water.

Presently, refreshed and clad, Mark joined his friend who, sprawled at full length on an ornamented lectus, was in conversation with the butler concerning the arrival of a courier from Jerusalem.

“Make him comfortable,” the Prince was saying, “and tell him we will see him in an hour or two.”

“He says it is urgent, sire.”

“Nothing is urgent—in Tiberias,” drawled Antipas.

“ ‘Tiberias’?” queried Mark lazily, from the adjacent loggia. “Name of your new villa?”

“Name of my new city!” declared Antipas. “One of the most beautiful cities in all the world. All of it—every building in it—great and small—to be of white marble. You’re planning to build your villa of white marble, aren’t you?”

“Apparently,” chuckled Mark, “though I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Are you ready now for a tankard of wine?”

“I’ve been ready this half-hour.”

Antipas clapped his hands and the wine arrived. They drank earnestly, and their tongues were loosened. Mark was besought for the latest news of Rome. He shook his head dourly. Rome had quite lost her charm; many changes—and all of them for the worse. He did not bother to explain that his eminent father’s disastrous defeat at the hands of the barbarous Germanic tribes had done the Varus family no good socially: Antipas could—and did—form his own conclusions about that. Mark would be glad enough, he went on, to change his residence. Rome was filling up with vulgar upstarts, rich nobodies busy with business; a strange crowd now at all court festivities. Old Augustus had his faults, to be sure, but he had some dignity. Tiberius had brought in an entirely new breed of favorites. He had made Rome the dullest place on earth. He hated games; considered them a waste of public funds. He was going in for all manner of economies, as if the Empire was on the verge of bankruptcy.

“Well—it is; isn’t it?” mumbled Antipas.

Mark agreed that it was, and always had been, but it still contrived to carry on.

“This new Tiberian dynasty,” he continued, “is going to strip the city of everything that made her name famous. All that we hear about now is the importance of making the land more productive and the common people more contented.”

“Sounds sensible,” said Antipas.

“That’s what ails it,” muttered Mark. “How can there be any pleasure in a country that has resolved to be—sensible?”

“Is Tiberius still thinking of a northern invasion?”

“He probably never entertained such a thought,” scoffed Mark. “I’m surprised your father was ever taken in by that rumor. The Emperor is working night and day to rebuild his Western Army.”

“Indeed! I had supposed there was nothing left of it,” remarked Antipas, ineptly. To cover his unintentional rudeness he added, quickly, “So—we no longer have anything to fear? That is good—if you’re sure you know.”

“I’ve had it on the best of authority. You might have been spared that matrimonial alliance with Arabia. By the way”—Mark’s eyes twinkled mischievously—“how has that little treaty worked out? Is she pretty?”

Antipas frowned slightly, shrugged the impertinence away, up-ended his goblet, sat up, blinked thoughtfully, and began slowly counting his fingers.

Beckoning to the butler he said, “Tell the courier we will see him now.” Presently he was thrusting his jeweled dagger through the wax sheath of a heavily gilded scroll. In silence and without betraying any sign of interest—for he was aware of Mark’s lively curiosity—he read the formal message from his mother. Signaling the courier, waiting at a little distance, he said, casually, “After you have rested, you may return to Jerusalem. Convey our regards to Their Majesties and our good wishes to the Princess Arnon, for her health and happiness. And you may say,” he added, as an after-thought, “that the child’s name is Esther.”

“Why do you want her called Esther?” asked Mark, with childish impudence, when the courier had bowed himself away.

“Because she was born on the fifteenth of Adar, a feast-day in honor of Queen Esther.”

“Never heard of her. What’s she Queen of?”

“Persia—a century and a half ago.”

“Jewess?”

“Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’? Persia is not a Jewish country.”

Antipas dismissed this query with a negligent gesture, adding that he was not an authority on Persian history; but Esther, a very beautiful Jewess, had once been Queen of Persia, and did Mark want to bet anything on it?

“Is your baby a Jewess?” hectored Mark. “Half Arabian, isn’t she?”

“That will not matter much,” yawned Antipas. “She will be brought up as a Jewess.”

“In my poor judgment,” declared Mark, suddenly serious, “it’s going to be an awkward situation for her, all her life. A very unfortunate combination—half Arab, half Jew.”

“Not so bad as you think,” said Antipas, reassuringly. “Both nations will want to claim her.”

“You know better than that!” said Mark. “Neither nation will accept her, much less claim her! My guess is that your Esther is going to be a very unhappy little girl.”

“Well”—muttered Antipas—“it’s too late to fret about that now.” He held up his goblet for refilling. “Of course, you’ve no idea how beautiful this pool will be when the lining is in. I’ll show you the designs after dinner. They are absolutely incomparable!”

Again it was Tishri. The summer was over, and the grass was tipped with white in the mornings. Varus had left for Rome, gratified with the Prince’s assurance that he would be joining him in a couple of months, after he had paid his respects to his family.

Arriving home, Antipas had spent a leisurely hour refreshing himself after the tedious journey. Strolling into the Queen’s apartment, as casually as if he had taken leave of his mother an hour ago, he eased himself into a deeply cushioned chair and waited for her appearance.

“Antipas!” Mariamne threw her arms about him, hugging him hungrily. “You have stayed away so long! We wondered if we were ever to see you again!” She held him at arms’ length. “You’re brown as a peasant.”

He patted her on the cheek.

“Beautiful as ever!” he declared. “How do you do it?”

They sat down together on the divan, Mariamne gently caressing his tanned forearm.

“You’ve seen Arnon?” she inquired, anxiously.

“Not yet.” Noting his mother’s frown, he added, “Naturally, I wanted to see you first.”

Mariamne accepted the tribute with a wisp of a smile, but grew serious again, shaking her head slowly.

“I think I should tell you, my dear, that your neglect of Arnon has all but broken her heart. You might at least have written her a friendly letter—about the baby.”

“Sorry,” muttered Antipas. “I’ve been very busy. The villa, you know. I must tell you all about it. You see—when I first thought of it—”

“The villa can wait,” said Mariamne, crisply. “In the name of common decency, you should go at once to see your Princess—and this beautiful child, Fara. Come—I shall go with you—if that will make it any easier.” She rose, and tugged him to his feet.

“Why do you call the child Fara?” inquired Antipas, testily. “I named her Esther.”

“You may call her Esther, if you like.” Mariamne’s tone was frankly indignant. “But Arnon has named her Fara!”

“Against my wishes?”

“Of course! Why should Arnon pay any heed to your wishes, after the way you have treated her?”

“She is my wife!”

“Oh—is she? I thought you had forgotten.” Mariamne was angry now, and her words came hot and fast. “I don’t want to upset you, my son, the first hour you are home, but not everyone has forgotten that you married the Princess of Arabia. King Aretas remembers! Your father has had a message from him. He will tell you.”

Antipas searched his mother’s eyes and swallowed noisily.

“You mean—the Arabian is hostile?”

“Your father will tell you,” said Mariamne. “Come! Better do what you can to make amends to Arnon.”

“No!” growled Antipas. “I shall not be applying for any Arabian’s pardon; not even Arnon’s! And if this sullen shepherd, who calls himself a King, has the effrontery to dictate to a Prince of Israel—”

Mariamne held up a hand, warningly.

“It is quite apparent,” she decided, “that you are in no mood to visit Arnon. Go at once to your father, and learn where you stand—in this unfortunate business. I shall tell the Princess that you are here, and eager to see her, but that the King has summoned you to an urgent conference. And—let me say one thing more,” she added, as Antipas moved toward the door, “it will be much to your advantage if you conduct yourself respectfully in your audience with your father. No strutting, no levity, no assumption that you are a petted favorite of the King!”

“Angry, is he?”

“ ‘Angry’ is a very mild word for it! And—don’t bother to tell him what all you have been building in Galilee. The King has other plans for Galilee!”

It was not a happy interview. To begin with, Antipas was halted—politely enough, but definitely halted—at the door of his father’s audience room, the Chamberlain announcing firmly that the King was engaged.

“But he will see me,” rasped Antipas. “Go and tell him.”

“His Majesty has been notified that you are here, Your Highness. He bids you wait until you are summoned.”

Antipas turned to go.

“Say to His Majesty that I shall return when he is less busy,” he said, indifferently.

“If I may venture a suggestion,” murmured the obsequious Chamberlain, “the Prince would be well advised to remain here, until he is called.”

Something of warning in the old man’s tone checked Antipas’ impulsive decision to leave. Indignantly he glanced about for a chair to fling himself into, but to his surprise and annoyance there were no chairs in the corridor. He was about to order one brought to him, but the Chamberlain had already slipped back into the room, closing the door behind him. Antipas paced up and down, fuming. He had never been treated like this before. Once he made up his mind to go, stalked as far as the great door that gave onto the terrace, but thought better of it—and returned. It was all of an hour before the Chamberlain reappeared to say that His Majesty would see His Highness now.

Forcing a filial smile, Antipas entered, bowed, and said:

“My greetings, sire! I hope I find you well.”

“Sit down!” barked the King.

Antipas drew a sober face and sat, rigidly, at attention.

It was immediately evident that the King had carefully composed the speech upon which he launched with icy restraint. He had tried, he said quietly, to be an indulgent father. It was not easy for a King—hard pressed with cares of state—to give his children the firm discipline necessary to the production of a strong character. He had paid his sons the compliment of believing that—with their superb advantages—they would develop strength, dignity, integrity.

But he had been bitterly disappointed, he went on dejectedly. Where was there a father, in all this realm, who had less cause for satisfaction in his sons? There was Philip, the weakling, the cuckold! Herod’s voice shook with contempt. And there was this insufferable braggart and brawler, Archelaus! What had he ever done, the King asked himself, to have deserved an affliction like Archelaus?

“Only last week,” he went on, with rising heat, “your impudent brother came to advise us that we were too old to continue our rule; that we had toiled too long, too diligently; that we should retire, and confer on him the regency! Think of that! The regency—of all Judaea! To be conferred upon a loud-mouthed, contentious fellow who can’t even get along harmoniously with his own lazy drinking-companions!”

Antipas smiled a little, reminiscently. Feeling himself to be presently in need of mercy, he thought it opportune to put in a defensive word for his elder brother. Herod, noting that the Prince wanted to speak, paused to listen.

“Archelaus was indeed over-reaching himself, sire, but is it so unthinkable that he should be made regent of Judaea? He is the heir to this throne! is he not?”

“That,” snapped Herod, “is none of your business! We are just now about to come to your business!”

And so—after this considerable delay—they had come to the Prince’s business—and a bad business it was, too. Antipas, had he the normal instinct of a six-year-old waif, would have known, declared the King, what a dangerous position he had accepted when he consented to be the son-in-law of an Arabian King.

Antipas feebly protested that the honor had been forced upon him, but Herod wasn’t entertaining any mitigating circumstances.

“You have treated this Arabian girl shamefully! What a fool you are—to think that these savages in Arabia who, for all their uncouth manners, have their pride, would let you heap indignities upon the only child of their King! Now you have it to settle for! And in full, mind you! I have had word from Aretas. His message is brief but clear! His daughter is to be brought home to Arabia!”

Antipas raised his head and brightened perceptibly. He drew a long, comforting sigh. His father, observing his relief, rose from his chair, and stabbed a finger in the air.

“Mind you”—he shouted—“the Princess is to be taken home to Arabia; not sent home. And you, Your Brightness, will accompany her. Aretas insists upon that. His much cherished daughter, he says, has suffered enough at the hands of this Court. She is not to be returned like some article of rejected merchandise! Those were his words. Her husband is to bring her home, in a manner befitting their station, and show her the honors she—and her countrymen—have a right to expect.”

“But”—spluttered Antipas—“why does he want me to play this farce? He probably despises me.”

“Indeed he does!” yelled Herod—“and not probably! And why shouldn’t he?”

“They will kill me—if I appear over there,” muttered Antipas.

“They will kill you if you don’t!”

“How long must I stay?”

“Until you have fully restored Arnon’s damaged pride; until you have satisfied Aretas and his Council that you respect their Princess as your wife.”

There was a long silence.

“I had expected to leave for Rome,” protested Antipas. “I have business there.”

“That may be,” snorted Herod. “But you have no business in Rome that can compare, in urgency, with the business you have in Arabia.”

“How about my obligations in Galilee?”

“You are to forget all about Galilee!”

“Meaning that you have deposed me, sire?”

“For the present, yes. We will take care of all Galilean matters. Whether you ever find yourself in Galilee again is a question you may answer for yourself. You may go now. Make peace with your Princess. And prepare to take her home without delay.”

Antipas noisily exhaled a self-piteous sigh, slapped his palms down hard on the arms of his chair, and rose to his feet.

“This, sire,” he muttered, “is the unhappiest day of my life.”

“So far as you have gone,” assisted the King. “See to it now that you do not encounter unhappier days. Make things right with your Princess. Tell her how you have longed to return to her, but that a revolt among the people of your Province—” He broke off, annoyed to find his son attentively listening for further light on this extemporaneous alibi. “Contrive your own lie,” he went on, impatiently—“but make it good! Arnon will try to believe you, but she lacks a great deal of being such a fool as her husband.”

“A revolt, eh?” reflected Antipas.

“A dangerous uprising; and you had to stay there—and deal with it.” Herod grew thoughtful and continued, to himself, “I shall say that to Aretas. He may doubt the truth of it but a poor excuse, in a case so desperate, is better than none. When a man’s pride is injured, almost any medicine is welcome.”

“May I take my leave now, Your Majesty?” asked Antipas, with elaborate humility, hopeful that his father might relent and smile a little.

“Indeed you may, Your Highness,” mocked Herod, with a profound bow. “What an ass you are!”

The return to Arabia was not as difficult as Antipas had feared. He was regarded with deference. It was obvious that his shameful neglect of the Princess had been a well-kept secret. On the surface, Arnon had been treated kindly in Jerusalem. King Aretas received his son-in-law graciously enough, though without any ostentatious amiability, an attitude readily explained by his habitual reticence.

The Counsellors, promptly assembling to pay their respects, were forced to concede to one another (for none of them knew how badly their Princess had fared but Ilderan and Tema) that if Antipas were not a Jew he would be almost likable.

“It isn’t his fault that he’s a Jew,” remarked Adbeel.

“No,” agreed Mishma, “but it is a great misfortune.”

Arnon had wondered whether there might be some constraint in her meeting with Zendi, but when he called with his pretty wife Rennah, Dumah’s daughter, the air was instantly cleared for them all by little Fara. Rennah, presently to bear a child, had taken Arnon’s uncommonly beautiful baby into her arms, while the others, for various reasons, beamed happily over her unself-conscious display of maternal tenderness. They all laughed merrily when Fara laid a small pink palm against Rennah’s cheek—and smiled. Antipas, who had a talent for making friends easily, was delighted with his daughter’s charming response to Rennah’s caresses.

“What an adorable child!” declared Zendi.

“I never saw her make up with any one so quickly,” said Arnon. “I’m quite jealous of you, Rennah.”

“Beautiful women,” commented Antipas, “do not have to be jealous of one another.”

Arnon’s eyes had brightened at that. There was no doubt now that the Prince was proving to be a good husband. Even Aretas, standing by, seemed gratified.

“They are beautiful,” he put in, unexpectedly, for he was not given to compliments—“all three of them!”

And so—the return of Antipas to Arabia was made much easier for him than he had expected or deserved. The baby Fara had paved his way. The Arabians came from near and far to see this endearing child whose extraordinary beauty was on everybody’s tongue. Grim old shepherds, who had bitterly resented Arnon’s marriage to a Jew, came to see if her baby was really as lovely as the rumor, found the Prince so obviously devoted to his family that they went away to report favorably.

“He may be a Jew,” they said, “but he is doing well by the Princess.”

The ranking Arabians of his own age, suspicious and cold at first, gradually thawed toward Antipas. He was no match for them as an equestrian, but he was by no means inexperienced in the saddle. Respect for him increased almost to friendliness when, invited to join a party on a wolf hunt, he had appeared on a nervous, fidgety, unpredictable filly whose wet flanks showed that she had stoutly disputed his authority. Aretas had told him to select his own horse, that morning. Old Kedar had been instructed to assist him. The Prince had looked them over carefully.

“I’ll take this young bay mare, Kedar,” said Antipas.

Kedar had drawn a long face.

“She needs quite a bit of handling, sire,” he said.

“I dare say,” drawled Antipas. “She probably wants exercise—and so do I.”

Privileged by his age to speak his mind candidly, Kedar chuckled a little, deep in his throat, and replied, “Well—you’ll both get it, I think.”

When the young blades, waiting for him on a little knoll, saw him coming at an easy canter, they exchanged knowing grins. Approaching, Antipas dismounted.

“The girth is a bit tight,” he remarked, loosening it with a practiced hand. “It annoys her, I think.”

Everybody laughed companionably.

“It doesn’t take much to annoy that filly,” said Zendi. “Have any trouble with her, sir?”

“Nothing to speak of,” said Antipas. He patted the perspiring mare on her neck and gently tousled her forelock. “You’ll be a good girl now, won’t you?” he murmured kindly. The filly tossed her head; but, apparently thinking better of it, rubbed her muzzle across his arm. They all laughed again. Antipas was getting along very nicely with the Arabians.

Winter closed in. It was rather hard to bear. The days were short and cold and uneventful. Sometimes Antipas would talk to Arnon about Rome, and she would listen with wide-eyed interest, thinking to please him. When the first hardy little edelweiss peeped through the melting snow, he suggested that they plan a trip to Rome; not to stay very long. He knew she would enjoy the voyage, he said, and she would be interested in seeing this greatest of all the cities in the world!

Arnon demurred at first. She would like to go—but there was little Fara. We will take her along, said Antipas. That would be difficult, said Arnon. Then leave her here, said Antipas. She has an excellent nurse. And we will soon be back. Do think it over, he implored, adding wistfully, “I am really a city-bred man, my dear—and it has been a long time since I have been on a paved street.”

“He has done very well, Arnon,” said her father, when she consulted him for advice. “Much better than we had thought. Perhaps you should humor him.”

“I’m not very happy in a big city,” said Arnon.

“And your husband is not very happy in the open country,” said Aretas. “Better meet him halfway in this matter. Otherwise, he may grow restless here.”

She nodded her head. It was good counsel. Antipas would grow restless here. She did not add that Antipas was already so restless that it was making him moody and detached.

No one could have been more graciously attentive than was Antipas on their long voyage from the port city of Gaza to Rome. The early summer weather was perfect for sailing, the little ship had better accommodations than most, and the ports of call were of fascinating interest.

Arnon could not be quite sure whether the Prince’s good humor and high spirits represented his desire to make her contented, or could be accounted for by a boyish anticipation of a return to his enchanted city. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and enjoyed the comfortable journey.

Antipas spent long hours, on lazy afternoons under the gay deck-canopy, discoursing of the life he had lived in Rome, and the friends to whom he would introduce her. But the more he talked, the less confidence she had in her capacity to find pleasure in the pursuits of such people as he described. Did they ride, she asked. No—there really was no safe and quiet place to ride unless one lived on an estate in the country. But—couldn’t they do that, inquired Arnon. Antipas had whimsically wrinkled his nose: he had had quite enough of country life for the present. But—wouldn’t it be frightfully noisy in the city? Doubtless; but Antipas didn’t object to the sound of traffic; it made him feel alive.

One day she asked about the language of Rome. Latin, wasn’t it? Perhaps Antipas would teach her. No, Antipas had replied, they did not speak Latin; that is, it was spoken only by the lower classes.

“Everybody who is anybody,” he went on, “has had private tutors, and these men are invariably Greeks—Greek slaves.”

“The better people are taught by slaves?”

“My dear, our Greek slaves are the most intelligent men in the world. We Romans do not pretend to match them in learning.”

“ ‘We Romans’?” laughed Arnon. “You are not a Roman, are you?”

Antipas had glanced about, before replying in a guarded tone, “I am Jewish by race, but Rome is my city.” Rearranging Arnon’s pillows for her better comfort, he reverted to the language question. “You will pick up the Greek quickly, I think. You may speak with an odd accent at first. Most foreigners do. That is to be expected. But the Romans will find it charming. It always amuses them.”

Arnon smiled uncertainly. Of course she knew that she would be considered a foreigner, but the word made her lonely. And she would speak queerly, and it would amuse them. Doubtless they would treat her as a child, learning to talk. She wouldn’t like that. Some women were at their very best—playing they were six, prattling baby-talk, but Arnon had been taught to despise such silly affectations. Now she would be forced to do the baby-rôle, for which she felt temperamentally unfitted. She frowned thoughtfully. If she had been at a disadvantage in Jerusalem where at least she could talk like an adult, how would she feel in Rome? It worried her so much that she asked the question of Antipas who, summoned from his day-dreaming, replied absently, “You will not feel strange—after a day or two.”

But she did. The great, garish, clamorous city bewildered her. The elaborate house to which Antipas brought her was conducted in a manner utterly unfamiliar. She had such difficulty in making the servants understand her wishes that she soon gave up trying to be the mistress of her home and allowed the score or more of slaves to run the establishment as they pleased. Often they were drunk, always they were lazy; it was suspected that the butler was dishonest. The meals were late and indifferently served. The rooms were untidy. Antipas coolly remarked that he had never lived less comfortably. He did not say it was Arnon’s fault; but whose else could it be?

Their first social evening out was at the home of Mark Varus. Antipas had reminded Claudia that his Arabian Princess would be having language difficulties which might make her seem ill at ease, and would Claudia limit the number of her guests to a very small company who could be depended on to understand Arnon’s predicament. So, Claudia had invited only twenty.

The first person to be introduced was Arnon’s sister-in-law, Herodias, who spread a wide, red mouth, nodded gaily to her new relative—as if they had known each other since childhood—and threw her long, slim, jingling arms around Antipas’ neck, drawing him to her in a daring embrace. Lagging behind Herodias was a sheepishly grinning, balding man whom Arnon readily guessed was Poor Philip. He advanced shyly and spoke in Aramaic.

“Thrice welcome, Princess Arnon, to this overestimated city. I am Philip, the pampered husband of that lady who is so firmly attached to my brother. We are, as you see, a devoted family.”

Arnon smiled at this persiflage, but couldn’t help feeling shocked over Philip’s indifference to his wife’s sluttish behavior.

“They must be very warm friends,” she said, trying to be casual.

Claudia had turned away to greet arriving guests. Herodias had eased her grip on Antipas and was whispering earnestly into his ear. Mark Varus, flushed and lusty, approached to say—in Greek, “So—at last—we have the lovely Princess of Arabia with us!”

Arnon smiled, only half understanding.

“Her Greek isn’t very nimble yet, Mark,” said Philip. “Know any Aramaic?”

Mark said “Very little,” and proceeded to prove it by discoursing, in extravagant terms, of the new villa in Galilee. Arnon, who knew less about the villa than Mark knew about Aramaic, could only say that she hoped to see it, some day. Mark’s intuition suggested that this topic might profitably be dropped now, he offered her his arm and led her—with a proprietorial swagger—among the groups of guests, introducing her to faces rather than names. Arnon had a feeling that no one knew who she was, or cared very much. They smirked, nodded, and continued their loud-pitched conversations in which three or four women seemed endeavoring to talk one another down. Arnon was stunned by the confusion. She had never been in a place so astoundingly noisy or so appallingly rude.

Mark Varus continued to drag her about in a manner that made it difficult to maintain any dignity at all, as if he were exhibiting a blooded colt, pinioning her arm tightly under his, while he gaily shouted greetings to new arrivals. Arnon turned about to look for Antipas, but he was lost in the crowd; probably had forgotten her.

Presently an elaborate dinner was served, the guests lounging languidly on an elbow in the deep upholstery of divans drawn close together about a long table. Mark, seated next to Arnon, was most attentive, embarrassingly attentive, finding frequent occasion to bend over her in an effort to serve her plate personally with some delicacy. She instinctively drew away from these intimate contacts; and Mark’s ardor, after a few unmistakable rebuffs, suddenly cooled. Turning from her, he attempted to attract the attention of Herodias, on the other side, but finding her wholly preoccupied with Antipas, he laboriously resumed his attention to the Arabian Princess, scolding her gently for her abstinence. Arnon tried to explain that it was not a custom among her people to drink intoxicants. Sometimes, she said, their men had a glass of wine, but it was not considered suitable for an Arabian woman to drink, at all.

Philip, who was seated next to her, overheard the conversation and leaned forward to remark that one was expected to drink deeply at Roman banquets.

“It annoys half-drunken people,” he went on, drolly, “to talk to anybody who remains sober. It embarrasses them. That’s why Varus presses you to imbibe, Princess Arnon. He means it well enough. He is your host—and he wants you to be a social success.”

Mark listened with a frown, but made no comment.

“And I won’t be a success—unless I’m a little bit drunk?” inquired Arnon.

“Well—” drawled Philip, with a chuckle, “that’s one way of saying it—but I never heard it put so briefly and clearly before.”

He caught Mark’s eye and was rewarded with a scowl and a shrug.

“I’m afraid I am not going to like it very well—in Rome,” murmured Arnon. It was some time before Philip commented on that. Regarding her soberly, he said, “No—you couldn’t. My brother should not have brought you here. You are of a texture much too fine to be soiled with this degradation.”

For an instant, Arnon searched Philip’s eyes, suspecting that he was taunting her, but found him seriously sincere.

“Perhaps you, too, would be happier—somewhere else,” she said.

“Anywhere else,” he replied.

After a few weeks of earnest but unsuccessful endeavors to accommodate herself to the mores of Rome, Arnon gave up trying and begged Antipas to excuse her from further attendance at banquets.

“And am I to spend my evenings at home, then?” he demanded, testily. “Is it your thought that I should live the life of a hermit in a cave?”

There was only one reasonable answer to that. Arnon assured him that he was quite free to go alone, whenever and wherever he pleased; which he did. It was not long before they were seeing very little of each other, making no effort to repair their estrangement.

One evening in early autumn when Arnon was about to sit down to a solitary dinner, Philip surprised her by calling. She insisted upon his dining with her, and he seemed glad to accept. She found it easy to talk with Philip, whose reticence everybody mistook for stupidity. It was not long until the conversation was becoming quite personal; by mutual consent, for they were both lonely. Arnon’s life in Rome, Philip was saying, must have turned out to be very tiresome. Tiresome, said Arnon, wasn’t the word she would have used, but it was at least that.

“Sometimes,” declared Philip, dreamily, “I can hardly endure it. I have often thought of running away—to Sicily, perhaps, and live alone—” He seemed talking to himself now, with eyes half closed—“in the country, in a little house, on a green hillside, with fruits and flowers to cultivate, trees, grass, sunsets, and a friendly dog or two.”

“But would you be happy—without your family?” asked Arnon, when he had ended.

“I have no family,” he muttered. “Herodias is never at home. I do not ask where she spends her time.”

“Why don’t you?” ventured Arnon. “She is your wife.”

“For the same reason that you do not ask Antipas where he spends his time,” said Philip. He chuckled unpleasantly. “I daresay that if we inquired of their present whereabouts, we would find them in the same place.”

“You mean—they are often together?”

“They are always together! And if I were you, Arnon, I should leave for Arabia at once—before this scandal humiliates you—and your people.”

Arnon’s heart beat hard and her throat hurt.

“I think that was why you came to see me tonight,” she said, weakly. “You thought it was high time for me to know.”

Philip nodded, without meeting her eyes.

“Everyone else knows,” he said. “Why shouldn’t you?”

Next morning, the unavoidable interview between Antipas and Arnon terminated their unhappy alliance. To his considerable relief, the Prince’s scandalous behavior was not discussed. Arnon simply stated that Rome was no place for an Arabian Princess to hope for happiness, and Antipas cheerfully agreed that her return to her own people was the only solution to their problem. He would arrange for it without delay.

A well-appointed pleasure barge was chartered, stocked with everything that might make the long voyage comfortable. A score of trusted men, experienced in handling caravans, were engaged to safe-guard the overland journey from the port at Gaza.

On the day before the sailing, Antipas tried to slant the conversation toward the probable attitude of King Aretas. Reassuring Arnon on the wisdom of her decision to return home, he added, pleasantly, “And how pleased your father will be to have you come back to him. I am sure he has been lonely without you.”

Arnon frowned, pursed her lips, and stared squarely into his uneasy eyes. He shifted his position and made a pretense of casualness. Slowly lowering her head, she continued to search his face from under her long lashes. She gave him a slow, enigmatic smile.

“My father will welcome his daughter’s return to his tent,” she said, measuring her words. “But Aretas, the King of Arabia, may not be pleased when he learns that the Princess of Arabia has been put to shame by an alien enemy.”

“Meaning that he will seek revenge?” Antipas was serious now and his voice was unsteady.

“Prince Antipas is not well versed in Arabian history,” replied Arnon, “if he thinks that this indignity might be easily overlooked.”

The implied warning disposed of the Prince’s suavity and self-assurance. He paced the floor, flushed and angry.

“Let the King of Arabia do what he will!” he shouted. “Doubtless the Princess will put the worst possible construction on her difficulties. She will not tell the King that she made no effort to fulfill her obligations to her husband.” He paused in his march and regarded her sternly. “I have not injured you! On the contrary, you are abandoning me! And I may as well tell you now that when your ship has sailed tomorrow I shall execute a bill of divorcement—on the grounds of desertion!”

Arnon suddenly sat erect. Her eyes lighted.

“Do you really mean that?” she exclaimed. “Accept my thanks, Antipas, for this gracious favor!”

Stunned by this unexpected blow to his vanity, he studied her eyes soberly. No—she was not ironical. She meant it sincerely. He had hesitated to hand her this crushing news—and now it was evident that she was delighted to receive it. He bowed stiffly and walked toward the door where he turned for a final word.

“You will find on the barge a young, well-born Greek slave, whom I bought yesterday at considerable cost. She is your personal property. I hope you will take her with you. She reads, writes, and speaks Greek fluently. In addition to her other duties, perhaps she will teach my little daughter a more graceful language than the crude imitation of Aramaic that is spoken in Arabia.”

Arnon flushed a little.

“Whether our language is crude or not,” she retorted, “depends on who speaks it! And—I want no parting gift from you.”

“As you like,” said Antipas, indifferently. “The Greek slave will be on the barge, and she is your property. If you do not want her—pitch her overboard.”

The Prince did not appear when the ship sailed. Arnon had not expected him, and was not disappointed. At the last minute before the hawsers were hauled ashore, Philip arrived in a surprisingly happy mood. He led her a little way apart on the afterdeck for a final word.

“This is a good day for you,” he said, gaily—“and for me, too! You are going home to people who love you, freed from everything that has made your life unpleasant.”

“And you?” queried Arnon.

“I, too, am free! Herodias has informed me that she and my brother want to be married; and would I divorce her. Would I? I do not often move with so much alacrity. And I am sailing, in a week, for Sicily.”

“How fortunate you are, Philip,” said Arnon. “I do hope you will be contented there. I shall often think of you—in your garden.” She lowered her voice. “The Prince may have told you that he is divorcing me.”

Philip nodded.

“I was gratified and a bit surprised that Antipas found the courage to tell you himself. My brother has always disliked to admit that he is a scoundrel.”

After farewells were said and the ship had cast off, Arnon was conducted to her commodious cabin where an uncommonly bright and pretty young woman, of nearly her own age, was unpacking her boxes. She had quite forgotten about the slave. The girl made a deep curtsey, with eyes timidly averted, and continued with her task.

“I am told that you belong to me,” said Arnon, kindly. “What is your name?”

“Ione, Your Highness,” said the girl, with another obsequious curtsey.

“You may address me as ‘Princess Arnon’—and you need not curtsey. Are you a good sailor?”

“I do not know, Princess Arnon.”

“But this is not your first voyage.”

“No, Princess Arnon. I was brought to Rome from Piraeus in a slave-ship when I was only ten, but we were crowded down deep in the hold where it was always dark and there was no air. I was very sick, all the time. Perhaps I may do better if—”

“—If you are allowed to breathe,” assisted Arnon. “We will see to that.” She smiled reassuringly and the girl’s eyes softened. “It will be a long voyage,” she added. “I am taking you to Arabia.”

“I am glad, Princess Arnon,” murmured Ione.

“You are not sorry to leave Rome? You will not be homesick?”

“I have no home, Princess Arnon. I am glad to leave Rome. I shall be happy in Arabia.”

“But you were never in Arabia,” said Arnon, amused.

“No, Princess Arnon,” said Ione, “but I know I shall be happy—if you are there.”

The caravan wearily drew up before the King’s encampment at sunset. Old Kedar was much moved as he helped Arnon out of the cramped camel-housing, lifting her down as if she were still a little girl. Word spread rapidly that the Princess had come home. Nephti met her at the door and tenderly placed the baby Fara in her arms. Arnon’s eyes were misty as she looked down into the child’s smiling face. The servants gathered about, making soft little murmurs of fond delight. The Princess inquired for her father.

“The King should be here soon,” said Kedar. “They buried the good Chief Ilderan, this afternoon.”

As the twilight came on, Aretas arrived, sober and moody over the loss of his great friend. Arnon’s presence comforted him, but he was impatient to learn why she had been brought back by strangers. She tried to spare him, tried to take most of the blame, tried to temper his rising anger; but he demanded the full truth, and she told him everything. Aretas did not eat or sleep that night.

Next morning, well mounted couriers were dispatched in all directions with messages to the Counsellors tersely telling the story. The Counsellors, in turn, sent word to their tribal sheiks that an expedition would move at once upon Jerusalem. A mobilization of cavalry was ordered, the concentration to occur on the east bank of the Jordan near the village of Jeshimoth. By the fifth day, two thousand armed horsemen were assembled.

The violent rage that had swept Aretas was not apparent now. That fire, still dangerously hot, had been banked. When the King spoke to his impatient troops he was composed. Arabia had suffered a great humiliation at the hands of the Jews. A swift and savage blow was to be struck at Herod, seeing that the despicable Prince Antipas was out of reach.

The Arabians needed no urging. They were so eager to proceed that the Counsellors postponed the election of a successor to Ilderan. Indeed, it was with much difficulty that Aretas detained the vanguard until the contingents from far distances had arrived. Young Zendi would have taken a score of his reckless neighbors on ahead of the others had not Aretas spoken to him sharply.

“You may be the ruler of these brave men, some day,” he said, “and it is not too soon to let them know that you have not only a courageous heart but a cool head.”

When the eagerly awaited order was shouted on that eventful morning they bounded away to the west, forded the river, scrambled up the bank into Judaea, galloped four abreast across the plain, through the startled villages, over the highways, into the palm-bordered avenue that bisected suburban Bethany. They dashed down the long hill from whose top the turrets and spires of Jerusalem shone brightly in the noonday sun. Still four abreast, they rode through the massive open gates, a score of bewildered guards and revenue officers scattering before them. They proceeded at full gallop through the narrow, winding, crowded streets, indifferent to the shouts and screams of the panic-driven crowds that scurried for safety in doorways and alleys. Now they had reached Herod’s imposing palace, “The Insula,” where they drew rein. Lining up in precise ranks that filled the spacious plaza fronting the huge marble Insula, they dismounted from their wet horses and stood waiting while Aretas and the Counsellors rode up the broad white steps and across the stone-floored terrace and up another flight of steps toward the impressive bronze doors.

A thousand Roman legionaries stood guard, but had received no order to obstruct the mounted Arabians. Perhaps the Legate was stunned out of his wits by the sheer impudence of these grim horsemen who had dared to ride up to the very doors of the Insula.

It struck Aretas strangely that so large a force guarded the King’s palace. Surely he had had no word that the Arabians were making an invasion; or, if he had ordered out his troops to repel an attack, why were they standing there motionless?

Aretas shouted to the Legate, who approached respectfully.

“Take me to Herod!” he demanded.

“King Herod is dead, sire.”

“Have a care,” shouted Zendi. “It is dangerous to lie to the King of Arabia!”

“I have told you the truth, sire,” reiterated the Legate, calmly. “King Herod died of a shock, early this morning.” He gestured toward his troops. “This is a Guard of Honor.”

“Open those doors!” commanded Aretas. “I came to see Herod—and I mean to see him—alive or dead!”

After a brief parley, Legate Julian gave the order. The great bronze doors slowly swung open. The mounted detachment moved forward.

“But, sire,” protested the Legate, “I hope you are not going to ride your horses into the Insula! Surely you would show more respect for the King of the Jews!”

“Stand aside!” growled Aretas. “I am not here to show respect!”

They rode into the marble-lined palace, down the broad corridor, inquired of a frightened sentry where Herod’s body was to be found; and, upon learning that it was in the Council Chamber, proceeded to ride into the high-domed, beautifully appointed room. In the center, on a bier, reposed the King of the Jews. The military guard, numbering a score, stood their ground. Forming a circle about the corpse, the Arabians sat for a long moment in silence. Aretas pointed his riding-whip toward the waxen face.

“It is clear we cannot take revenge on that!” he said, calmly. “And we have no cause to hew the Roman legion to pieces. And there is no Jewish army to fight.” Aretas dismounted and the Counsellors followed his example. With bridle-reins in hand, they stood in a circle around the bier and held a conference. All were agreed that there was nothing further to do in Jerusalem. Dumah, dissatisfied, suggested that they hang Herod’s body to a tree in the courtyard. Mishma—who was expected to be appointed Chief of the Counsellors—objected to this on the ground that it wouldn’t be dignified.

“It would be as dignified,” said Dumah, “as what we are doing now!” For Mishma’s bay mare had taken a step forward and was inquisitively sniffing the gray feet of the late King. Everybody chuckled. Even Aretas grinned. They mounted their horses, rode out of the Council Chamber and down the corridor and out into the warm sunshine. A report was made to the cavalrymen. They were instructed to be at ease and do what they liked until sunset.

Disappointed and disgruntled, they rode back into the business zone; and, after the manner of idling soldiers, made a nuisance of themselves in the shops and markets. No serious damage was done. One indignant old goldsmith remarked, “Kindly leave your horses outside. You are welcome—but we have no accommodations for horses.” The Arabians thought this was funny and laughed heartily at the joke as they rode about through his bazaar, examining the expensive merchandise. Pleased that the Arabs did not loot his store, the goldsmith cheerfully answered all their questions.

“How do you happen to be doing business today?” they asked.

“We’ve had no order to close up,” replied the old merchant.

“You know that King Herod is dead, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Sick very long?”

“Hadn’t you heard?”

“Heard he was dead; that’s all.”

“There’s more to it than that! Prince Archelaus arrived from Rome, last night, and he and the King quarreled. Somehow the Prince was stabbed, accidentally, they say; and the King had a stroke—and died.”

The Arabians stopped browsing about the shop and surrounded the goldsmith inquisitively. Was the Prince badly hurt? Yes—he was said to be dying.

As the afternoon wore on, some of the cavalrymen managed to find some wine which gave them renewed interest in their mission of vengeance. They rode their horses into the lobby of the Temple, tore down several exquisitely wrought tapestries from the walls, and set fire to the High Priest’s palace. But—as for revenge—no one was satisfied. That could come later—when they had access to Antipas. He was the ruler of Galilee, and would eventually return to his domain. Some day, they declared, a few picked men of Arabia would pay him a visit.

At dusk they set off in the moonlight for their homeland. Next morning, as if the expedition had not already acquainted itself with a sufficient number of unusual incidents, the King’s white stallion misjudged the width of a cross-country wall and pitched his rider violently to the ground. They hurriedly dismounted and gathered about him. Aretas was dead.

Improvising a litter made of young saplings, they slowly bore the body toward home. That evening they camped on the plain near Jeshimoth. After their supper, eaten in silence, the troops assembled to hear Mishma confer the Kingship of Arabia upon Zendi, the son of Ilderan.