The Big Fisherman (3 page)

'That makes me even less eager to go there,' Aretas had replied almost gruffly. 'If the King of the Jews has found favour with the Governor of Petra—all the more reason why we should keep our distance.'

* * * * * *

It was high noon when the Arabian cavalcade by a circuitous route reached the southern gateway into Petra. A brightly uniformed detachment met the expected guests at the pass and conducted them through the fortified defile.

After a three-mile ride on a well-kept road, flanked by green pastures, orchards, and widely spaced villas of exquisite architecture, the visitors climbed a long hill, reining in at the summit to face a breath-taking view of the white marble city. There they dismounted to rest their horses. Aretas and Ilderan sauntered a little way apart and for some moments silently surveyed the beautiful panorama below them.

King Herod's encampment, easily identifiable, had already been set up in a spacious park at the centre of the city. It monopolized at least three-quarters of the park. The colourful tents and gay banners moved Aretas to mutter that it was a more gaudy show than he had expected of the ever dolorous Jews.

'That is the Roman touch, sire,' observed Ilderan. 'Herod does not forget how he came by his kingship.'

'Aye,' rumbled Aretas. 'It was a lucky day for that Idumean upstart when his foolhardy father stopped the Egyptian arrow intended for Cassius.'

'I have often wondered, sire,' drawled old Ilderan, 'whether Cassius might have been so generous with his gratitude had he known how much wealth these Idumeans would acquire in Judaea.'

'It's never too late for the Empire to rectify a mistake of generosity,' said Aretas.

'True—but there's no hurry. Herod took over a Jerusalem built of sun-baked brick and is refashioning it in granite and marble. Old Augustus should be willing to let him do that, at the Jews' expense. Besides,' continued Ilderan, 'Judea pays an exorbitant tribute. Why should the Emperor send an army in to kill the goose that lays gold eggs?'

'Even so; Herod's nights must be troubled by bad dreams. . . . Shall we proceed into the city, Ilderan?'

The old Councillor did not assent promptly. His brow was furrowed. Pointing toward the Jews' encampment with his riding-whip, he remarked, 'Herod has occupied all but a corner of the park, sire. Doubtless he expects us to content ourselves with what remains of it. Such an idea would become him, I dare say.'

'Let us not give him that satisfaction,' growled Aretas. 'We will pitch our tents where we are—on this hill-top. Agreed?'

Ilderan nodded approval. Beckoning to Zendi, the popular young Captain of the Royal Guard, Aretas gave the order. Noting the sudden disappointment in Zendi's face, he added, 'After our camp is in order, you and your men are at liberty to ride down into the city.'

There was a spontaneous murmur of pleasure from the tough young cavalrymen, which prompted the King to announce sternly, 'You will remember that we are guests here. Zendi, you are to hold your men strictly to account for their behaviour! . . . And—one thing more: there is to be no quarrelling with the Jews!'

Zendi raised his hand for permission to speak.

'Should the Jews attack us, Your Majesty, what shall I tell my men to do?'

King Aretas swung into his saddle before replying.

'In that case, Zendi,' he said, with a shrug of his shoulder, 'your men will know what to do—without being told.' There was a concerted shout of laughter. Even Aretas, who rarely smiled, pulled a reluctant grin as he rode away in the lead of his amused Councillors. Ilderan, riding beside him now, resumed their conversation about Herod.

'Of course, sire, he cannot help realizing the instability of his provincial throne. He proves his apprehension by the frequency of his journeys to visit the Emperor—and the fact that his sons spend most of their time in Rome.'

'The Jews probably object to that,' surmised Aretas.

'Naturally, sire; but Herod is in greater need of the Emperor's favour than the good opinion of the Jews, who would despise him, no matter what he did—or left undone. . . . All that flamboyant display of Roman trinkets represents Herod's fear—rather than his admiration—of Augustus.'

On the level now and four abreast, the Arabians quickened their speed and swept through the suburbs of Petra, presently drawing up before the stately palace of Sosthenes, the Governor, where Aretas and his council were ceremoniously received. Sosthenes seemed flustered.

'I trust Your Majesty may find ample room in the park for your encampment,' he said, with an apologetic smile which Aretas made no sign of interpreting. It was evident that the taciturn King of Arabia, whatever he might think of the King of the Jews, was not disposed to exhibit his feelings for the entertainment of this smooth-tongued Greek. 'And if there is not sufficient camping-space in the park,' continued Sosthenes uneasily, 'we will see to it that your retinue does not lack for hospitality.'

'We have already encamped, my lord,' said Aretas; 'on the high plateau south of the city. Our people prefer the open spaces. Will you advise King Herod that Arabia is at his service?'

'He awaits you, Your Majesty.' Sosthenes' tone indicated his relief that an awkward situation had been nicely disposed of. 'If it is agreeable, your conference will be held here in our council-chamber.' With a deep bow, he led the way to a high-domed, marble-walled room, luxuriously furnished with huge upholstered divans arranged in two semi-circles fronting a massive teakwood table, at either end of which stood a tall-backed, gold-covered, throne-like chair. The Arabians had not long to wait. Attended by a dozen venerable members of the Jewish Sanhedrin, Herod strutted in. Stiff bows and crisp amenities were exchanged. The Kings took their places in the tall chairs. The Councillors and the Sanhedrin sat. Facing each other, with calm, steady-eyed curiosity, the rulers of Judaea and Arabia presented a striking contrast in costume, bearing, and physique.

Herod was urbane, suave, quite the man of large affairs. He was sixty and paunchy, and there were pendulous pouches under his experienced eyes. It was apparent that the paunch and the pouches were decorations won in courageous combat with nourishing food and rich beverages. His abundant thatch of greying hair—close-cropped after the Roman manner—glistened with scented unguents. His beard was short and well-groomed, a compromise between the patriarchal whiskers of Jerusalem and the cleanly shaved jowls of Rome. His robe was of fine-spun white linen, trimmed with purple at the throat, cuffs, and skirt-hem. Herod had the self-assured posture of a man who had been everywhere, and always with the right people; who had seen everything, and always from a reserved seat.

Aretas was carelessly dressed in a brown, travel-worn cashmere burnous, the skirt of which was parted revealing his brown goat-skin riding-breeches and thong-laced boots. The only touch of colour on his clothing was the ancient crest of the Ishmaelites, an oval patch of blue silk appliquéd to the left breast of his burnous. In this field of blue were the well-known devices seen on Arabia's banners—a slim, gold-embroidered moon-crescent, half-circling a silver star—and pierced, in the form of an X, by a white sword and a shepherd's crook, the distinctive symbol of Arabian royalty. Aretas did not relax in his chair but sat rigidly erect with the air of a man accustomed to brief parleys, laconic statements, swift agreements, and an unceremonious adjournment.

In his early fifties, Arabia's King was lean as a leopard, tough as a bowstring, and as tanned as an old saddle. The hood of his burnous had been pushed back from his deep-seamed forehead, showing a tousled mop of grizzled hair. He too wore a short beard, but nobody had trimmed it that morning, much less anointed it with fragrant oils. There was nothing of smooth statesmanship in the face or bearing of this Arabian. Except for the royal crest, he was not accoutred like a king, nor did he have the manner of one accustomed to the adroit thrust and parry of diplomacy. Yet there were the deep-set black eyes to be reckoned with, eyes inured to long vistas and well-versed in the lore of the sky.

Having spent most of his life indoors, Herod—cannily competent in studying the minds and moods of similarly sheltered men—peered into the fathomless eyes of Aretas, and the carefully rehearsed speech he had obviously meant to make seemed to need revision.

'Your Excellency,' began Herod, measuring his words, 'we invited you here to discuss a matter of grave concern to both our nations.' He paused for some response; at least a slight lifting of the Arabian's brows. But the face of Aretas was impassive, giving no sign of surprise or curiosity.

'We have recently returned from Rome with disturbing news,' continued Herod. 'Plans are rapidly taking shape for a Roman invasion into the north-east that will sweep this coast so bare of everything valuable that when it is ended the very vultures will die of starvation. Neither of us—and you may be sure that we will both be involved in this tragedy—can hope to withstand such an attack, but, firmly resolved to unite in a defence of our countries, we might exhibit enough force to dissuade Tiberius—'

'Tiberius!' broke in Aretas. 'Is Tiberius not leading the Army in the West?'

'Not at present,' replied Herod, pleased to be able to instruct his conferee from the hinterland. Tiberius had been recalled to Rome some months ago, to be co-regent with Augustus. The Western Army, in charge of the subjugation of the German tribes and the occupation of all Gaul, was given to Varus, who had now been completely overwhelmed—put to utter rout, destroyed! 'It is the worst defeat that the Empire has ever experienced. Never again will the Romans cross the Rhine. If they are to recover their lost prestige, at home and abroad, they must extend their power in the east—and the north. And our countries are on the highway to Damascus.'

Aretas frowned studiously, but made no reply, though the Jew gave him plenty of time for a rejoinder. Perhaps, mused Herod, the remote Arabian does not fully realize the predicament of the Romans and their necessity to strike a blow—or invite disaster. He decided to post Aretas on some recent history that might have escaped him. The speech lasted for a full half hour, Aretas listening without commenting.

Augustus—Herod went on—had made a great Emperor; no doubt of that. In spite of the fact that he never had had any health, at all, he had done much for Rome. But now he was old, and so ill that everybody knew about it. The reins of government had been slipping rapidly through his rheumatic fingers. He had lost his grip on the Senate. The rabble was restless. Of course the trouble was largely fiscal. Gone were the days when—in need of money to finance a fortnight's free feasting for Rome's improvident thousands—an expedition could be sent to raid Sicily or Crete or Cyprus or Macedonia, returning with valuable slaves, grain, lumber, leather, and gold. True, the provinces could still be sacked and pillaged, again and again; but the Romans had less and less to show for it.

'You remember, don't you, Your Excellency, how Augustus was so hard up—a few years ago—that he required every man, in all the provinces tributary to Rome, to pay a poll-tax?' Herod snorted with disgust. 'It was a paltry thing to do, the act of a miser or a bankrupt. The provinces were already taxed to the limit of their endurance. And then this bewildered old Emperor childishly decides to screw a poll-tax out of the hungry provincials! He sought to clothe the ridiculous affair with dignity by pretending the main idea was to take a census; every man was commanded to report on a certain day, in the place of his birth—wherever that was—and have himself enumerated. But that never fooled anybody. Augustus didn't care how many people were controlled from Rome. All he was interested in was their wretched little five farthings. Some of our poor people had to travel so much as a week's journey to obey the edict.'

'I had forgotten,' said Aretas. 'It did not affect my people. The Emperor would hardly chase an Arabian through the mountains for five farthings.'

'I'm not so sure that he wouldn't,' remarked Herod, with a shrug. 'He will—this time! Tiberius will want your sheep and cattle and camels; and your daughters too. There is only one way out for us, Your Excellency. Let us make a treaty—and stand together. Tiberius will think twice before he risks another defeat.'

'Do you imagine, sire,' asked Aretas, 'that Tiberius could be made to believe that the Jews and Arabs had concluded an alliance after many centuries of hatred?'

'I had thought of that.' Herod hitched at his big chair, which did not move an inch, and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. 'I too had thought of that. Tiberius will need sound proof that out alliance is genuine.'

'Have you something to suggest?' inquired Aretas.

'A tangible unity. I am told that you have a marriageable daughter. I have an unmarried son.'

Aretas winced, and shook his head.

'My daughter,' he muttered, 'would not like that.'

'Nor would my son,' said Herod, with equal candour. 'But for what reason are princes and princesses fêted and sheltered; for what reason are they given ices cooled with snow brought from the mountains by swift runners with lungs on fire; and to what end do courtiers bow before them—if not that when the day comes on which they must subordinate their own desires for the good of their country, they shall pay their debt cheerfully and in full?'

'Perhaps this may apply to your son, my lord, but not to my daughter. She has lived simply, even frugally, as becomes an Arabian of whatever position. Arnon has had no ices in summer.'

'Be that as it may,' said Herod crisply. 'Ices or no ices, your daughter loves her country, I think. She would sacrifice much rather than see Arabia laid waste. Nor would she suffer hardship at the hands of my son, Antipas. He is a noble young fellow, gracious, kind, wealthy. They might even come to love each other, though that, of course, is unimportant.'

'It would not be unimportant to my daughter,' said Aretas. 'Besides—she is already in love with a young man of our own people.'

Herod stroked his chin with the backs of his plump fingers, and meditated.

'Has her betrothal been announced?'