Chapter 12

Considering all the dangers she had faced and escaped on her audacious journey from the mountains of Southern Arabia to the Sea of Galilee, the young daughter of the Tetrarch felt that her expedition had been singularly successful.

However shabbily the gods had treated her in filling her veins with the incompatible blood of two mutually contemptuous nations, making it impossible for her to feel at home in either of their lands, it was clear that her quest of vengeance had not been disapproved on Mount Olympus where (according to Ione) these deities maintained their headquarters.

True, Fara’s vow still lacked fulfilment; but perhaps the gods, having thus far blessed her adventure, might be counted upon to help her see it through. Even if it should culminate in a swift tragedy for her, an untimely death would be preferable, she thought, to any length of life in a world that had made such poor provision for her happiness.

But, resolutely as she had schooled her mind to a stoical acceptance of her probable fate, there were occasional days when her courage ebbed, and for its renewal Fara would take counsel of their heroism who had lived dangerously—and, in many cases, briefly—for honour’s sake. She was in need of such courage today.

Curled up childishly in a heavily upholstered leather chair that had been built expressly for the comfort of Tetrarch Antipas, and was therefore several sizes too large for his daughter, Fara had been trying to bolster her morale by reacquainting herself with her favourite hero. What a gallant youth was Demosthenes! No burden could weight him down; no obstacle could slow him up! He too had vowed a vow, pledging himself to prepare for a bold attack on the rapacious merchants and wicked politicians who had impoverished and debauched his beloved Athens. Like Fara, Demosthenes had had his bad days. Sometimes he felt that he was throwing his youth away on a hopeless undertaking, and only by the most rigorous self-discipline had he been able to adhere to his resolution.

The story about him that Fara liked best was of his shaving one side of his head so he wouldn’t be tempted to abandon his hard studies and rejoin his gay companions in the baths and at the theatre. Having herself done a bit of sacrificial barbering in the interest of keeping a vow, Fara felt that she and young Demosthenes had a great deal in common. Her admiration of him was unbounded. Of course this devotion took no toll of her maidenly modesty, for her hero had been dead these three hundred and fifty years and would never know how tender was her sympathy.

But this afternoon—it had been raining all day—not even Demosthenes was able to do much for Fara. As she riffled through the yellow old scrolls that eulogized his bravery, she wondered whether his famed career hadn’t cost more than it was worth. True, he had stirred Greece to a noisy house-cleaning, but the evil-doers had survived him. Demosthenes had kept his vow—but lost his life. Fara pushed the scrolls off her lap and asked herself what was the good of it. Maybe she and Demosthenes were a couple of fools to have set their youthful, dancing feet on the rough and lonely road toward a guaranteed disaster.

The afternoon was wearing on and the sombre, high-ceilinged library, never a bright and cheerful room even when the sun shone, was filled with depressing shadows. The gilded spool-ends of a pair of scrolls, high on a shelf in the corner, stared down at her through the gloom as if to inquire how long she thought she could sit there in the oppressive silence and ghostly shadows without losing her mind.