Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Have you something to suggest?’ inquired Aretas.

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

Aretas winced, and shook his head.

‘My daughter,’ he muttered, ‘would not like that.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Has her betrothal been announced?’

‘No,’ admitted Aretas.

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

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

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