Chapter 2

The ranking Arabians of his own age, suspicious and cold at first, gradually thawed toward Antipas. He was no match for them as an equestrian, but he was by no means inexperienced in the saddle. Respect for him increased almost to friendliness when, invited to join a party on a wolf hunt, he had appeared on a nervous, fidgety, unpredictable filly whose wet flanks showed that she had stoutly disputed his authority. Aretas had told him to select his own horse that morning. Old Kedar had been instructed to assist him. The Prince had looked them over carefully.

‘I’ll take this young bay mare, Kedar,’ said Antipas.

Kedar had drawn a long face.

‘She needs quite a bit of handling, sire,’ he said.

‘I dare say,’ drawled Antipas. ‘She probably wants exercise—and so do I.’

Privileged by his age to speak his mind candidly, Kedar chuckled a little, deep in his throat, and replied, ‘Well—you’ll both get it, I think.’

When the young blades, waiting for him on a little knoll, saw him coming at an easy canter, they exchanged knowing grins. Approaching, Antipas dismounted.

‘The girth is a bit tight,’ he remarked, loosening it with a practised hand. ‘It annoys her, I think.’

Everybody laughed companionably.

‘It doesn’t take much to annoy that filly,’ said Zendi. ‘Have any trouble with her, sir?’

‘Nothing to speak of,’ said Antipas. He patted the perspiring mare on her neck and gently tousled her forelock. ‘You’ll be a good girl now, won’t you?’ he murmured kindly. The filly tossed her head; but apparently thinking better of it, rubbed her muzzle across his arm. They all laughed again. Antipas was getting along very nicely with the Arabians.

Winter closed in. It was rather hard to bear. The days were short and cold and uneventful. Sometimes Antipas would talk to Arnon about Rome, and she would listen with wide-eyed interest, thinking to please him. When the first hardy little edelweiss peeped through the melting snow, he suggested that they plan a trip to Rome—not to stay very long. He knew she would enjoy the voyage, he said, and she would be interested in seeing this greatest of all the cities in the world.

Arnon demurred at first. She would like to go—but there was little Fara. We will take her along, said Antipas. That would be difficult, said Arnon. Then leave her here, said Antipas; she has an excellent nurse and we will soon be back. Do think it over, he implored, adding wistfully, ‘I am really a city-bred man, my dear—and it has been a long time since I have been on a paved street.’

‘He has done very well, Arnon,’ said her father, when she consulted him for advice. ‘Much better than we had thought. Perhaps you should humour him.’

‘I’m not very happy in a big city,’ said Arnon.

‘And your husband is not very happy in the open country,’ said Aretas. ‘Better meet him halfway in this matter. Otherwise he may grow restless here.’

She nodded her head. It was good counsel. Antipas would grow restless here. She did not add that Antipas was already so restless that it was making him moody and detached.

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