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 favourite of the King!'
'Angry, is he?'
'"Angry" is a very mild word for it! And—don't bother to tell him what 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 on to the terrace, but thought better of it—and returned. It was a whole 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' expression sobered and he 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 honour 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 honours 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 Councillors, 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 likeable.
'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 Fata. 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 unselfconscious 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 take to 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 rumour, and found the Prince so obviously devoted to his family that they went away to report favourably.
'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 practised 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 humour 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 humour 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 on 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.