It took Voldi an hour to confide the story. At first he tried to explain—with many wide-open gaps in the tale—how and why Fara, the incomparable Jewish-Arabian, had got herself away up into Galilee. But when he saw that Felix was darkly frowning his dissatisfaction, Voldi went back to the beginning of his narrative and told it all, every detail of it: Fara's shockingly rash vow of vengeance; her daring journey alone and in the flimsiest of disguises; the failure of her utterly impracticable mission; her refusal to return to Arabia. And when he had made an end of it, he searched the shrewd Roman eyes in an entreaty for his friend's sympathetic understanding.
Felix exhaled a deep breath, and said, as from a distance, 'I wouldn't believe a word of it, Voldi, except that it's much too fantastic ever to have been made up! Nobody could invent a tale like that! The daughter of Antipas! Vowed to assassinate the Tetrarch of Galilee! Single-handed! Sixteen-year-old girl! Still plans on doing it! . . . Well—she's either crazy as a hoot-owl—or the bravest creature alive!'
'You wouldn't think she was crazy if you met her,' said Voldi. 'As for her bravery, she doesn't value her life very highly. Fara is a woman without a country, you know. She cares little whether she lives or dies. The trouble is: she undoubtedly knows now that she cannot possibly succeed in her undertaking—and she has voluntarily cut herself off from Arabia. . . . I know she loves me, Felix, and I would gladly die for her. . . . Is it any wonder that I took a chance?'
Felix sat for some time with his elbows on his knees, digging his fingers into his close-cropped, curly hair; then he slowly raised his head to inquire:
'Well—what's to be done, if anything?'
'It's easily to be seen that there's nothing I can do,' said Voldi dejectedly. 'If I could only get a letter to her, explaining why I cannot come; but a letter from me would certainly be intercepted and lead to an investigation of Fara's business in Galilee.'
'I have it!' declared Felix impulsively. 'You write the letter. I'll take it to her.'
There was a quiet moment before Voldi replied. It was not natural for either the Arabian or the Roman to show any emotion. Laying a hand on Felix's knee, Voldi murmured, 'You are indeed a loyal friend, Felix! I hope this doesn't get you into trouble.'
'It's time I had some trouble. A bit of adventure will be good for me. . . . And this girl is well worth the risk.'
'What will the Prefect think of you?'
'He will be annoyed, I dare say; but I feel sure that if he were in my place he would do exactly what I intend to do. . . . The Prefect,' added Felix proudly, 'is a very sound fellow!'
For the next half-hour they seriously discussed the ways and means. Felix wondered if some embarrassing curiosity might be stirred in little Bethsaida by the arrival of a stranger, easily identifiable as a Roman, to pay a visit to a young woman whose presence there had never been fully explained. It was finally decided that Felix should take the letter directly to the canny old Sadducee, David of the House of Zadok. Voldi confidently believed that David could be trusted to deliver the message to Fara.
* * * * * *
A week later, Felix returned from his journey. Voldi searched his friend's face anxiously as he entered the cell, and was relieved to note that he bore no evidence of trouble.
Felix had taken the letter to David's house, as they had planned. He had been much impressed by the old man's sagacity, and wanted to talk about him and the hospitality he had shown.
'But—what about Fara?' Voldi begged to know.
'She wasn't there,' said Felix. 'Fara is on a tour of the country with this wonder-working Carpenter and his companions.'
'But—that's impossible!' protested Voldi. 'She had been much impressed by this young prophet; but I cannot imagine her following him about. Fara is not a religious person at all!'
'Perhaps not,' conceded Felix, 'but she is infatuated with the Carpenter. When you were there, this woman, Hannah, with whom she lodged, was very ill. Some days later, when her life was despaired of, the Carpenter came and healed her. Fara believed it was a miracle; no less. She confided the whole story to old David; told him the Carpenter had healed her, also.'
'Healed Fara? And what was her trouble?'
'A bit of a riddle turns up at this point,' said Felix. 'She told David that the Carpenter had healed her mind, lifted some intolerable burden. The good old fellow wouldn't say what the burden was. Perhaps he didn't know. More likely he knew—but wouldn't tell. . . . My own guess is that the Carpenter talked her out of her vow.'
'That's probably it,' thought Voldi. 'I hope so!'
'She left a verbal message for you, with David, in case you came while she was absent. Fara is very anxious for you to return to Arabia. She intends to stay in Galilee and assist this Jesus, the Carpenter.'
'Assist him? How?'
'David says she is helping to take care of the sick children who are brought to the Carpenter for healing. He thinks she is paying a debt of gratitude for the miracle he performed on herself.'
After a long interval, Voldi said, 'That ends it, I suppose. She will give her life to this Jesus. Well, it might be worse. She never could have done—the other thing.'
'Oh, it might have been possible,' reflected Felix. 'Fara could have found employment in the Tetrarch's household easily enough; could have become a trusted servant; could have killed him. It would have been suicidal, of course; but—she could have done it.'
'It's a disgrace to Arabia that this fellow is allowed to live!' muttered Voldi.
'I agree with you,' nodded Felix.
'Perhaps you think it's my job now,' wondered Voldi.
Felix made no reply to that. Rising, he said he would return tomorrow.
'You do think that, don't you?' insisted Voldi, clutching at his friend's sleeve.
Felix gave an enigmatic grin and dismissed the query with a shake of his head—which Voldi could interpret any way he liked.
'By the way,' he said, at the door. 'Darik is in fine condition. He is being exercised every day. When you get out of here, he'll take you—anywhere!'
* * * * * *
As Herodias had predicted, the dinner-party was proving to be as dull as it was lavish and expensive. The Romans, beginning too early with the birthday celebration by drinking recklessly since mid-afternoon, were apathetic as they clumsily slumped down on to their couches round the banquet tables. The magician from Caesarea was half drunk and impudently vulgar. The acrobats worked furiously for their feeble applause. As for the harpists, they had not yet appeared. Upon their arrival, at noon, Salome had taken them in hand, after promising her stepfather that she—and the musicians—would have an interesting surprise for him.
There was a deplorable lull in the programme as they waited for the entertainment to proceed. Senator Cotta yawned prodigiously and inquired, 'What's next, Your Highness?' Tiro suggested, 'Why doesn't somebody make a speech?' Mark Varus drawled, 'How about that prophet you've had penned up, Antipas?'
'That's not a bad idea,' approved Fadilla. 'Bring him in! Let him talk!'
Antipas briefly demurred. He had been drinking more than was his custom, and was ready to agree with almost any proposal, but this suggestion, he felt, needed to be deliberated. Turning toward Fadilla, who sat some little distance away, he said, 'There is an ancient legend among our people, Tullius, about a prisoner—one Samson—who was brought up from his dungeon to amuse a party of his captors; and he pulled the house down over their heads.'
'The Tetrarch is superstitious,' remarked Aurelia Varus.
Antipas frowned, beckoned to a uniformed guard who stood behind him, and muttered an order. Then, raising his voice as the guard left the room, he announced, 'We have a prisoner in our jail, a demented fellow who thinks he is a prophet. We are having him brought in to make a few remarks. We have no notion what he is likely to say; but let us listen to him with a show of respect—or he may be unwilling to talk, at all.'
The room grew suddenly quiet as the gaunt, unkempt prisoner was led in, blinking against the blinding light of the huge stone lamps that lined the walls. Two tall guards brought him to a stand before the Tetrarch's table.
'Prophet John,' said Antipas, 'a desire has been expressed to hear you speak. You may choose your own subject. It may interest you to know that this is our birthday. Should you wish to take that event as your text, we will be gratified. Perhaps, if we like your speech, we may set you free.'
There was a tense hush as they waited for the shaggy hermit to begin. When he spoke, his deep voice betrayed no agitation or embarrassment, nor was there any evidence that he resented his role as an object of ridicule.
'Sire,' he began, 'on Your Majesty's birthday it is fitting to review Your Majesty's years and deeds. Doubtless this might be accomplished by any of the great and gifted ones in this presence more eloquently than by a humble captive; but perhaps no more truthfully.
'Not often, sire, in the history of this unhappy world, has it been given into the hand of one man to bring about the peace of two great nations, long at enmity. This task was entrusted to Your Majesty; the healing of the hatred between Ishmael and Israel.'
The Tetrarch frowned darkly and drummed on the table with his finger-tips. Hispo whispered to Paula Fronto, 'The man is crazy!'
'It is not for Your Majesty's prisoner,' continued John, 'to conjecture why our God, in His wisdom, should have called to this important task a man so vain and selfish as Your Majesty; but His ways are mysterious and past finding out. Who shall say when again—if ever—it may be one man's privilege and duty to heal the breach between the Arab and the Jew!'
'That will do, mad dog!' spluttered Antipas, lurching to his feet. 'Get you back to your kennel!'
Seizing him, the guards pushed the prisoner roughly toward the door. Throughout the room indignant murmurs rose, implying an attempt to reassure the Tetrarch that no attention need be paid to the hermit's ravings; but the damage had been done, and almost everyone present—certainly the older ones—knew that the truth had been spoken. Antipas unwittingly sought David's eyes to learn their view of the awkward situation, but the old Sadducee soberly stroked his beard and did not look up.
It was Salome who, quite unaware of what had been going on in the banquet-hall, now came to the temporary rescue of the stunned and embarrassed Tetrarch. Trailed by the score of well-rehearsed harpists, she sailed gracefully into the room, made a deep curtsey to her stepfather, and, snapping her castanets, pirouetted into a reckless gambado. She was light as a feather and almost completely unencumbered by clothing of any sort. Except for a braided chaplet of rubies, an elaborate design of pearl necklaces, and a fringe of sapphire-strands across her loins, Salome was nude.
Antipas, suddenly tugged out of his helpless anger by the girl's beauty and grace, was beside himself with admiration and delight; and when she had finished, with a flashing smile for him alone, he shouted that she might ask what she would—and it should be hers! There was much applause. Salome had saved the day for the Tetrarch, and they were all glad for him.
Herodias had slipped out into the corridor and was awaiting her daughter when she emerged from the banquet-hall, beaming over her plaudits.
'You heard what he said?' queried Salome, still breathing rapidly from her exertions. 'What shall I ask? A coronet of emeralds?' She had a better thought. 'I know, I shall ask him for a beautiful pleasure barge on the lake!'
Herodias scowled.
'No!' she muttered. 'I'll tell you what to ask.' Drawing the girl close she whispered into her ear. Salome drew back, aghast.
'But—you're mad!' she breathed. 'What pleasure could I have in the death of that poor fool?'
'This time, my daughter,' stormed Herodias, 'it's not going to be what you want—but what I want! You've been given enough. And what you haven't been given, you have stolen. Do now as I command you—or I shall punish you! I mean that! You say I am mad: well, perhaps I am. But that will not make your punishment lighter. . . . Go! . . . Now!'
She was hardly to be recognized as the same girl when she walked slowly into the room, with uncertain steps and downcast eyes. She stood before the Tetrarch crestfallen. The place became suddenly quiet.
'Sire,' began Salome huskily, 'I desire, as my gift, the silver serving-platter that the Empress Julia presented to you.'
'But—of course!' replied Antipas, relieved but bewildered. 'You might have asked more, my child.'
'Sire—I do ask more.' Salome's voice sank almost to a whisper. 'I want the head of this John, the prisoner, served to me—on the silver platter.'
All breathing was suspended. Pale and horrified, Antipas leaned far back against his cushions, his face contorted.
'But—we—we can't do that!'
'You promised!' declared Salome with sober finality.
Like a tortured animal at bay, Antipas searched the faces about him, piteously seeking a way out of his dilemma, but finding no sympathy in the amused eyes of the cynical Romans. After a long moment of indecision, he beckoned to the Captain of the Guards and mumbled the revolting order.
Jairus scribbled a hasty note to be passed along to his host. Adiel, it said, had been taken suddenly ill—and might they be pardoned for leaving? Without waiting for consent, they made a hurried exit.
Then there ensued a long, painful interval, the silence broken only by brief and brittle bits of laboured conversation. Herodias had returned to her place between Manilius and Fadilla. Salome was not in sight. At length the doors opened. All eyes turned in that direction. The gruesome gift was carried in and deposited in front of the Tetrarch, who recoiled at the sight.
Young Flavia Tiro collapsed into the arms of Senator Cotta and was violently sick. The Senator was wearing a scarlet tunic with a black spread-eagle embroidered on his left breast. He pushed the sick girl off him and left the room, savagely damning Mark Varus, who had chuckled.
Small groups of guests began to file out, reassembling presently on the couches beside the pool. Now the banquet-hall was empty except for the Tetrarch and the Sadducee, who was rising to leave. Antipas called to him.