Chapter 2

No one could have been more graciously attentive than was Antipas on their long voyage from the port city of Gaza to Rome. The early summer weather was perfect for sailing, the little ship had better accommodations than most and the ports of call were of fascinating interest.

Arnon could not be quite sure whether the Prince’s good humour and high spirits represented his desire to make her contented or could be accounted for by a boyish anticipation of a return to his enchanted city. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and enjoyed the comfortable journey.

Antipas spent long hours, on lazy afternoons under the gay deck-canopy, discoursing on the life he had lived in Rome and the friends to whom he would introduce her. But the more he talked, the less confidence she had in her capacity to find pleasure in the pursuits of such people as he described. Did they ride? she asked. No—there really was no safe and quiet place to ride unless one lived on an estate in the country. But—couldn’t they do that? inquired Arnon. Antipas had whimsically wrinkled his nose: he had had quite enough of country life for the present. But—wouldn’t it be frightfully noisy in the city? Doubtless; but Antipas didn’t object to the sound of traffic; it made him feel alive.

One day she asked about the language of Rome. Latin, wasn’t it? Perhaps Antipas would teach her. No, Antipas had replied, they did not speak Latin; that is, it was spoken only by the lower classes.

‘Everybody who is anybody,’ he went on, ‘has had private tutors, and these men are invariably Greeks—Greek slaves.’

‘The better people are taught by slaves?’

‘My dear, our Greek slaves are the most intelligent men in the world. We Romans do not pretend to match them in learning.’

‘”We Romans”?’ laughed Arnon. ‘You are not a Roman, are you?’

Antipas had glanced about, before replying in a guarded tone, ‘I am Jewish by race, but Rome is my city.’ Rearranging Arnon’s pillows for her better comfort, he reverted to the language question. ‘You will pick up the Greek quickly, I think. You may speak with an odd accent at first. Most foreigners do. That is to be expected. But the Romans will find it charming. It always amuses them.’

Arnon smiled uncertainly. Of course she knew that she would be considered a foreigner, but the word made her lonely. And she would speak queerly, and it would amuse them. Doubtless they would treat her as a child learning to talk. She wouldn’t like that. Some women were at their very best—playing they were six, prattling baby-talk, but Arnon had been taught to despise such silly affectations. Now she would be forced to do the baby-role, for which she felt temperamentally unfitted. She frowned thoughtfully. If she had been at a disadvantage in Jerusalem, where at least she could talk like an adult, how would she feel in Rome? It worried her so much that she asked the question of Antipas who, summoned from his day-dreaming, replied absently, ‘You will not feel strange—after a day or two.’