Chapter 3

Fara, who had come to have deep respect for ancient crafts and historical writings, gave full attention to the table and its important freight.

‘You mustn’t touch anything,’ cautioned Deran.

Fara shook her head and continued to survey the awesome documents with fascination. Presently she came upon a slightly faded, multi-coloured sheet of papyrus which she read, with widening eyes and mounting comprehension. Deran, a little younger but much taller, stood at her shoulder, staring in bewilderment at her flushed cheek. She turned abruptly toward him, searching his face, but he gave no sign of knowing or caring what tiresome thing she had been reading.

When they arrived home shortly before sunset, Fara followed Arnon into her bedroom, impulsively reported what she had seen in the King’s tent, and entreated her mother to tell her everything, which she did. Everything!—the alliance, the marriage, the lonely days in Jerusalem, the humiliating days in Rome! All the pent-up wretchedness of Arnon’s ruined life poured forth, accompanied by a flood of tears. When the sad, sordid story was finished, the unhappy Princess dried her eyes and was surprised to find that Fara, instead of sharing her mother’s grief, was standing there dry-eyed, with her childish mouth firmed into a straight line and her brows contracted into an expression of bitter hatred.

‘And why has no one hunted him down—and punished him?’ she demanded indignantly.

‘It’s much too late for that,’ said Arnon. ‘When it happened our country was in great distress. No one could be spared. And now that we have such great prosperity, no one remembers.’ She sighed deeply, and went on, ‘Perhaps it is just as well. Galilee is a long way off. The Prince is well protected. Let us try to forget all about it, dear.’

Fara shook her head slowly.

‘I shall remember—always!’ she muttered.

That winter was long and severe. Arnon fell ill with a fever and relentless fits of coughing. Fara through these anxious days had no other concern but for her mother. Ione tried unsuccessfully to renew her interest in the classics, in her modelling, in her drawing.

‘Do persuade the unhappy child to get out and take some exercise!’ begged Arnon. ‘She is so unlike herself, Ione.’

‘It worries me too, Princess Arnon. Something has come over her.’

‘She is fretting because I am ill,’ said Arnon.

‘Of course, Princess Arnon,’ agreed Ione obligingly, ‘but you will be better when spring comes again.’