Chapter 3

Shortly before sunset the Princess Arnon, long ailing of infirmities associated with a broken heart, slipped away so quietly that for some little time they weren’t quite sure.

It was Fara who first realized that it was all over. Since noon she had been crouching beside the bed with her forehead pressed against her mother’s thin arm, now raising up tearfully to peer into the unresponsive face, then dejectedly slumping down again to wait.

At mid-afternoon old Kedar noisily rolled up the leather panels on the northern and eastern exposures of the octagonal tent, just as he would have done at this hour on any other fair summer day. Kedar had seen plenty of death in his four-score years and it no longer upset him. Indeed, he was almost too casual in its presence today, strutting his old bones about with something of a proprietorial swagger as if he and death had a private understanding.

All day long the female servants, a dozen or more, had tiptoed in by twos and threes to stand helplessly at a respectful distance from the bed, regarding their dying mistress with compassionate eyes, and had tiptoed out again as if remembering some neglected duty. Nothing remained to be done for Arnon; or, if so, there was old Nephti who had nursed both Princesses from babyhood, and the faithful Ione, hovering close—and a bit jealous of each other.

The whole mind of the household at present was concentrated on Fara and her probable plans for the future. Of course she would now marry Voldi, whose constant attentions during the past few years had been unceasing and whose intentions were unmistakable. It was generally taken for granted that Fara had decided not to marry until her responsibility to her mother had ended. And that responsibility had increased as Arnon’s strength declined; for the unhappy Princess had developed an immense capacity for absorbing all manner of trivial but incessant personal services. ‘Hand me the small pillow, please. No—the other one, dear, the blue one. Thanks, Fara, but I believe I’d rather have my shawl. It’s out in the pergola, I think. Would you mind getting it, darling? I know I’m a dreadful bother.’ And so she was; but it had never seemed to annoy Fara, who stayed on duty day and night. Obviously she couldn’t bring much happiness to Voldi until she was free. It wouldn’t be long now.

But where would they live? This was the question that troubled the servants; especially the older ones. Arnon’s land had been ceded to her only for her lifetime. It was inconceivable that Voldi, as Fara’s husband, would press a claim to it, or that the King could consent to such favouritism. Voldi would be as nomadic as all others of equal rating. The fact that his father Urson was the son of Mishma, who as Chief of the Councillors was the heir-apparent to the throne, was of no immediate consequence. Arnon’s land would revert to the King’s domain. Voldi and Fara would follow the snow and the pasture. And the older servants, long accustomed to soft living, might be considered too frail for such a rigorous life.

Indeed, as they huddled in little groups, waiting, watching, they wondered whether Fara herself was likely to be happy as a nomad. She had never taken any interest in their herds and flocks. She had shown much friendly concern for the shepherds and their families, but cared nothing for the business that provided her own living. Of course, there was no use trying to understand Fara. They had never known what to make of this alien who had become more of an enigma as she matured. She was as mysterious as she was beautiful. Doubtless that could be explained by her racial heritages. It was an odd combination—Arab and Jew. True, it was an arrestingly lovely blend, viewed objectively. Arabian women were taller than Jewesses and more sinewy. At sixteen, Fara’s figure was slim, supple, almost boyish: in short, Arabian. Her face was an interesting study in racial conflict. The old antipathy was written there as on a map. The high, finely sculptured nose, with the slightly flaring, mobile, haughty nostrils, had been Arnon’s gift. The childishly rounded chin and throat were Mariamne’s. It was a readily responsive face, well disciplined in repose, but of swift reactions to any stirring event. She was capable of flashing Arabian rages like sudden summer storms in the mountains, but it was well worth anyone’s patience and forbearance to wait for the penitent smile Fara had inherited from long generations of highly emotional people who believed in atonements and were never ashamed of their tears.