Chapter 2

The caravan wearily drew up before the King’s encampment at sunset. Old Kedar was much moved as he helped Arnon out of the cramped camel-housing, lifting her down as if she were still a little girl. Word spread rapidly that the Princess had come home. Nephti met her at the door and tenderly placed the baby Fara in her arms. Arnon’s eyes were misty as she looked down into the child’s smiling face. The servants gathered about, making soft little murmurs of fond delight. The Princess inquired for her father.

‘The King should be here soon,’ said Kedar. ‘They buried the good Chief Ilderan this afternoon.’

As the twilight came on, Aretas arrived, sober and moody over the loss of his great friend. Arnon’s presence comforted him, but he was impatient to learn why she had been brought back by strangers. She tried to spare him, tried to take most of the blame, tried to temper his rising anger; but he demanded the full truth, and she told him everything. Aretas did not eat or sleep that night.

Next morning, well mounted couriers were dispatched in all directions with messages to the Councillors tersely telling the story. The Councillors, in turn, sent word to their tribal sheiks that an expedition would move at once upon Jerusalem. A mobilization of cavalry was ordered, the concentration to occur on the east bank of the Jordan near the village of Jeshimoth. By the fifth day two thousand armed horsemen were assembled.

The violent rage that had swept Aretas was not apparent now. That fire, still dangerously hot, had been banked. When the King spoke to his impatient troops he was composed. Arabia had suffered a great humiliation at the hands of the Jews. A swift and savage blow was to be struck at Herod, seeing that the despicable Prince Antipas was out of reach.

The Arabians needed no urging. They were so eager to proceed that the Councillors postponed the election of a successor to Ilderan. Indeed, it was with much difficulty that Aretas detained the vanguard until the contingents from far distances had arrived. Young Zendi would have taken a score of his reckless neighbours on ahead of the others had not Aretas spoken to him sharply.

‘You may be the ruler of these brave men, some day,’ he said, ‘and it is not too soon to let them know that you have not only a courageous heart but a cool head.’

When the eagerly awaited order was shouted on that eventful morning they bounded away to the west, forded the river, scrambled up the bank into Judaea, galloped four abreast across the plain, through the startled villages, over the highways, into the palm-bordered avenue that bisected suburban Bethany. They dashed down the long hill from whose top the turrets and spires of Jerusalem shone brightly in the noonday sun. Still four abreast, they rode through the massive open gates, a score of bewildered guards and revenue officers scattering before them. They proceeded at full gallop through the narrow, winding, crowded streets, indifferent to the shouts and screams of the panic-driven crowds that scurried for safety in doorways and alleys. Now they had reached Herod’s imposing palace, the Insula, where they drew rein. Lining up in precise ranks that filled the spacious plaza fronting the huge marble Insula, they dismounted from their wet horses and stood waiting while Aretas and the Councillors rode up the broad white steps and across the stone-floored terrace and up another flight of steps toward the impressive bronze doors.