Chapter 2

Again it was Tishri. The summer was over and the grass was tipped with white in the mornings. Varus had left for Rome, gratified with the Prince’s assurance that he would be joining him in a couple of months, after he had paid his respects to his family.

Arriving home, Antipas had spent a leisurely hour refreshing himself after the tedious journey. Strolling into the Queen’s apartment as casually as if he had taken leave of his mother an hour ago, he eased himself into a deeply cushioned chair and waited for her appearance.

‘Antipas!’ Mariamne threw her arms about him, hugging him hungrily. ‘You have stayed away so long! We wondered if we were ever to see you again!’ She held him at arms’ length. ‘You’re brown as a peasant.’

He patted her on the cheek.

‘Beautiful as ever!’ he declared. ‘How do you do it?’

They sat down together on the divan, Mariamne gently caressing his tanned forearm.

‘You’ve seen Arnon?’ she inquired anxiously.

‘Not yet.’ Noting his mother’s frown, he added, ‘Naturally, I wanted to see you first.’

Mariamne accepted the tribute with a wisp of a smile, but grew serious again, shaking her head slowly.

‘I think I should tell you, my dear, that your neglect of Arnon has all but broken her heart. You might at least have written her a friendly letter—about the baby.’

‘Sorry,’ muttered Antipas. ‘I’ve been very busy. The villa, you know. I must tell you all about it. You see, when I first thought of it—’

‘The villa can wait,’ said Mariamne crisply. ‘In the name of common decency, you should go at once to see your Princess—and this beautiful child, Fara. Come—I shall go with you if that will make it any easier.’ She rose and tugged him to his feet.

‘Why do you call the child Fara?’ inquired Antipas testily. ‘I named her Esther.’

‘You may call her Esther if you like.’ Mariamne’s tone was frankly indignant. ‘But Arnon has named her Fara!’

‘Against my wishes?’

‘Of course! Why should Arnon pay any heed to your wishes after the way you have treated her?’

‘She is my wife!’

‘Oh—is she? I thought you had forgotten.’ Mariamne was angry now, and her words came hot and fast. ‘I don’t want to upset you, my son, the first hour you are home, but not everyone has forgotten that you married the Princess of Arabia. King Aretas remembers! Your father has had a message from him. He will tell you.’

Antipas searched his mother’s eyes and swallowed noisily.

‘You mean—the Arabian is hostile?’

‘Your father will tell you,’ said Mariamne. ‘Come! Better do what you can to make amends to Arnon.’

‘No!’ growled Antipas. ‘I shall not be applying for any Arabian’s pardon—not even Arnon’s! And if this sullen shepherd, who calls himself a king, has the effrontery to dictate to a Prince of Israel—’

Mariamne held up a hand warningly.

‘It is quite apparent,’ she decided, ‘that you are in no mood to visit Arnon. Go at once to your father and learn where you stand—in this unfortunate business. I shall tell the Princess that you are here and eager to see her, but that the King has summoned you to an urgent conference. And—let me say one thing more,’ she added, as Antipas moved toward the door, ‘it will be much to your advantage if you conduct yourself respectfully in your audience with your father. No strutting, no levity, no assumption that you are a petted favourite of the King!’

‘Angry, is he?’

‘”Angry” is a very mild word for it! And—don’t bother to tell him what you have been building in Galilee. The King has other plans for Galilee!’

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