Chapter 1

Arnon was given but little time to brood over coming events. Preparations for the marriage proceeded with breath-taking speed. Every day couriers arrived from Jerusalem to inquire of the Princess—or, more correctly, to report to the Princess—what were her wishes in respect to details which, in the opinion of an Arabian, were childishly trivial, but apparently important enough to warrant a laborious journey from the Jewish capital.

The vanguard of servants and equipment began to appear in increasing numbers. Long caravans toiled up the tortuous trail from the valley floor, widening the bridle-path to a hard-beaten road. Skilled Arabian seamstresses and weavers worked in feverish haste on the wedding garments for the Princess and her attendants.

Tactfully, mercifully, Aretas had dispatched Zendi to faraway Corinth on an errand no less important than the conclusion of a pending deal to lease another large parcel of land in the north to war-weary Greeks. It was a relief to Arnon when Zendi, pressed for time, called to say farewell; both of them glad that the leave-taking was done in the presence of their fathers. Arnon couldn’t have borne it, she knew, if they had had their final moment in seclusion. Poor Zendi! He had been so determined to deal manfully with his sorrow that he had hardly raised his eyes to hers when they parted.

The thousand sheep were led to another pasture, and on their grazing ground an awe-inspiring tented city rose. Soldiers in colourful uniforms made camp with such dexterity and precision that Arnon was forced to admire their skill. They did not squat in small huddles, an Arabian custom, to discuss what procedures were best. They knew exactly what to do. This, thought Arnon, was probably the way everything went in the outside world beyond her untamed but beloved mountains. Though firmly loyal to Arabia and its haphazard way of doing things, she felt a tug of excitement over being made a part of that competent society whose urbane representatives were now demonstrating their disciplined self-assurance.

Now delegations of wealthy Arabian sheiks swept by on their sleek horses and entered the tents their servants had prepared on the broad plateau, each contingent accompanied by entertainers: minstrels, magicians, field athletes, acrobats, and comedians.

Then came the awaited day of King Herod’s arrival with Prince Antipas, their tall camels resplendent with costly housings and trappings of gold and silver. Proudly, haughtily, the impressive caravan swung past the encampment of King Aretas and came to rest a few hundred yards away. With fluttering heart, Arnon watched her father and the Councillors greet the party from Jerusalem. It was a dizzying spectacle. King Herod was undeniably a distinguished personage and the Prince was tall and handsome. And there was the High Priest, guessed Nephti, Arnon’s lifetime nurse, who was holding the tent-panel open to see. Doubtless he had come, added Nephti, to conduct the wedding.

‘I had not realized it was to be a Jewish wedding,’ said Arnon.

‘The Jews like ceremonies,’ declared Nephti.

‘And we don’t?’ asked Arnon childishly.

‘Ours is more simple. If you were marrying Zendi—’

‘Don’t, Nephti!’ murmured Arnon. ‘You promised me.’

‘I am sorry, Princess. I only meant to explain that you would have taken his hand, in the presence of the Councillors, and promised to obey and serve him all the days of your life.’

‘And will I not be asked to obey and serve Prince Antipas?’

‘Of course—but it will take longer, I suppose. The Jews are like that.’

Nephti closed the leather panel as the girl turned aside soberly. Her intuition read Arnon’s thoughts. These strange people from afar were of immense interest, but they were of another world.

‘I had hoped that Queen Mariamne might come,’ said Arnon. ‘You saw no women in the party, Nephti?’

No—the whole event was to be a man’s affair: a political transaction, in which one woman would be included because she was necessary. Gladly would they have done without her, reflected Arnon, if that were possible. The wedding was a confirmation of an international alliance. The treaty had been formally written on a sheet of papyrus, duly signed, and now it must be ratified. Arnon was but so much sealing-wax stamped on an official document. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with a sense of heart-sickening loneliness.

That evening there was a banquet attended by the Kings, the Prince, the High Priest, several ranking members of the Sanhedrin, and the Arabian Councillors. After an hour’s feasting on the part of the men, Arnon was brought in to be introduced. She felt and looked very small and helpless.

Antipas stepped forward to greet her. He took both her hands in his and smiled down into her timidly upraised eyes. It was an experienced smile that skilfully appraised and evidently approved. For a moment the silence in the tent grew oppressive as they waited for an opinion from the beautiful young Princess. Presently she gave a shy, tremulous smile—and the suspense lifted. They all breathed freely again; and, with the exception of Aretas, exchanged glances of relief and satisfaction. Herod drained his goblet and smacked his lips. It was good wine. And—what was still better—by this time tomorrow the alliance would be an attested fact and he would be ready—if need be—to confront Tiberius.