Chapter 1

In the shade of a clump of willows sheltering a walled spring, not far from the royal encampment, Arnon was awaiting the return of her father, who had ridden early to the camp of Ilderan, seven miles east. She had joined him at breakfast, shortly after dawn, finding him moody and silent.

‘Is anything amiss, my father?’ Arnon had ventured to ask.

The King’s reply was long delayed. Slowly lifting his eyes he had stared preoccupiedly at the tent-wall beyond her.

‘Nothing you would know about,’ he had said, as from a distance.

Arnon had not pressed her query. Her father had made short work of his breakfast. At the tent-door he had turned to say, ‘I am consulting with Ilderan. I shall return by midday.’

For a long time Arnon had sat alone, wondering what had happened. Perhaps it had something to do with the message her father had received yesterday. Of course there was nothing strange about the arrival of a courier with a message. It happened nearly every day. But this courier—she had seen him riding away—was apparently from afar. He was attended by half a dozen servants with a well-laden pack-train. The donkeys had seemed cruelly overburdened. After the courier had departed, the King had retired to his own quarters. It was quite obvious that he did not want to be disturbed.

Arnon strolled restlessly about under the willows, her thoughts busily at work on the riddle. Presently her wide-set black eyes lighted as she saw her father coming up the well-worn trail, at full gallop, on his white stallion. She knew what to do. Emerging from the shade, Arnon stood beside the bridle-path with her shapely arms held high. Aretas leaned far to the left—the stallion suddenly slackening speed—and sweeping his arm about the girl’s slim waist, swung her lightly over the horse’s shoulder and into the saddle. Arnon laughed softly and pressed her cheek against her father’s short, greying beard. No words were exchanged for a little while.

‘You have something very serious on your mind, haven’t you, father?’ murmured Arnon.

He drew the stallion down to an easy canter.

‘I have had a strange message from Herod, the King of the Jews,’ said Aretas, slowing the impatient horse to a walk. ‘Herod wants me to meet him for a private conference a fortnight hence, in the city of Petra.’

‘How fine for you, father!’ exclaimed Arnon. ‘You’ve always said you were going to visit that beautiful city!’ Quickly noting her father’s lack of enthusiasm, she inquired, ‘But—you’re going, aren’t you?’

‘Yes; it sounds important.’

‘Is it not a long journey from Jerusalem to Petra? I wonder why the Jewish King wishes the conference held there?’

‘Perhaps it is something that concerns Petra, too.’

There was an interval of silence before Arnon spoke again.

‘Is this not the first message you have ever had from the King of the Jews?’

‘It is indeed! The first that has crossed our border for…’ Aretas paused to reflect.

‘A hundred years?’ guessed Arnon.

‘A thousand years!’ said Aretas. ‘Many, many more than a thousand!’

‘What do you make of it, father? What does the Jewish King want of us?’

Aretas shook his head. They were arriving at the encampment now. Guards stepped out to meet them. Arnon was released from her father’s arms and slipped lightly to the ground. Dismounting, the King beckoned to old Kedar, as his horse was led away.

‘You will fit out an expedition to Petra. We are leaving on the third day of the week. The Councillors will accompany us, and a guard of twenty riders. We may be tented at Petra for one day—or ten: it is not yet determined. The Councillors will have had their instructions from Ilderan. You will attend to all the other arrangements.’

‘The festival tents?’ inquired Kedar, implying that his sharp old eyes had observed the royal insignia on the accoutrements of yesterday’s courier.

‘No,’ replied Aretas. ‘We will take only the equipment we commonly use when we visit the tribesmen.’

Kedar bowed his grey head, his seamed face showing disappointment. He wanted to say that if the event was of high importance the King should make a better show of his royalty. He was turning away when Aretas spoke again, quite brusquely:

‘And, Kedar, though you may have conjectured about the nature of our errand in Petra, if anyone should ask you what is afoot you will reply that you do not know. And that will be the truth.’

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