Chapter 1

Herod was urbane, suave, quite the man of large affairs. He was sixty and paunchy, and there were pendulous pouches under his experienced eyes. It was apparent that the paunch and the pouches were decorations won in courageous combat with nourishing food and rich beverages. His abundant thatch of greying hair—close-cropped after the Roman manner—glistened with scented unguents. His beard was short and well-groomed, a compromise between the patriarchal whiskers of Jerusalem and the cleanly shaved jowls of Rome. His robe was of fine-spun white linen, trimmed with purple at the throat, cuffs, and skirt-hem. Herod had the self-assured posture of a man who had been everywhere, and always with the right people; who had seen everything, and always from a reserved seat.

Aretas was carelessly dressed in a brown, travel-worn cashmere burnous, the skirt of which was parted revealing his brown goat-skin riding-breeches and thong-laced boots. The only touch of colour on his clothing was the ancient crest of the Ishmaelites, an oval patch of blue silk appliquéd to the left breast of his burnous. In this field of blue were the well-known devices seen on Arabia’s banners—a slim, gold-embroidered moon-crescent, half-circling a silver star—and pierced, in the form of an X, by a white sword and a shepherd’s crook, the distinctive symbol of Arabian royalty. Aretas did not relax in his chair but sat rigidly erect with the air of a man accustomed to brief parleys, laconic statements, swift agreements, and an unceremonious adjournment.

In his early fifties, Arabia’s King was lean as a leopard, tough as a bowstring, and as tanned as an old saddle. The hood of his burnous had been pushed back from his deep-seamed forehead, showing a tousled mop of grizzled hair. He too wore a short beard, but nobody had trimmed it that morning, much less anointed it with fragrant oils. There was nothing of smooth statesmanship in the face or bearing of this Arabian. Except for the royal crest, he was not accoutred like a king, nor did he have the manner of one accustomed to the adroit thrust and parry of diplomacy. Yet there were the deep-set black eyes to be reckoned with, eyes inured to long vistas and well-versed in the lore of the sky.

Having spent most of his life indoors, Herod—cannily competent in studying the minds and moods of similarly sheltered men—peered into the fathomless eyes of Aretas, and the carefully rehearsed speech he had obviously meant to make seemed to need revision.

‘Your Excellency,’ began Herod, measuring his words, ‘we invited you here to discuss a matter of grave concern to both our nations.’ He paused for some response; at least a slight lifting of the Arabian’s brows. But the face of Aretas was impassive, giving no sign of surprise or curiosity.

‘We have recently returned from Rome with disturbing news,’ continued Herod. ‘Plans are rapidly taking shape for a Roman invasion into the north-east that will sweep this coast so bare of everything valuable that when it is ended the very vultures will die of starvation. Neither of us—and you may be sure that we will both be involved in this tragedy—can hope to withstand such an attack, but, firmly resolved to unite in a defence of our countries, we might exhibit enough force to dissuade Tiberius—’

‘Tiberius!’ broke in Aretas. ‘Is Tiberius not leading the Army in the West?’

‘Not at present,’ replied Herod, pleased to be able to instruct his conferee from the hinterland. Tiberius had been recalled to Rome some months ago, to be co-regent with Augustus. The Western Army, in charge of the subjugation of the German tribes and the occupation of all Gaul, was given to Varus, who had now been completely overwhelmed—put to utter rout, destroyed! ‘It is the worst defeat that the Empire has ever experienced. Never again will the Romans cross the Rhine. If they are to recover their lost prestige, at home and abroad, they must extend their power in the east—and the north. And our countries are on the highway to Damascus.’