The Big Fisherman (8 page)

One day she asked about the language of Rome. Latin, wasn't it? Perhaps Antipas would teach her. No, Antipas had replied, they did not speak Latin; that is, it was spoken only by the lower classes.

'Everybody who is anybody,' he went on, 'has had private tutors, and these men are invariably Greeks—Greek slaves.'

'The better people are taught by slaves?'

'My dear, our Greek slaves are the most intelligent men in the world. We Romans do not pretend to match them in learning.'

'"We Romans"?' laughed Arnon. 'You are not a Roman, are you?'

Antipas had glanced about, before replying in a guarded tone, 'I am Jewish by race, but Rome is my city.' Rearranging Arnon's pillows for her better comfort, he reverted to the language question. 'You will pick up the Greek quickly, I think. You may speak with an odd accent at first. Most foreigners do. That is to be expected. But the Romans will find it charming. It always amuses them.'

Arnon smiled uncertainly. Of course she knew that she would be considered a foreigner, but the word made her lonely. And she would speak queerly, and it would amuse them. Doubtless they would treat her as a child learning to talk. She wouldn't like that. Some women were at their very best—playing they were six, prattling baby-talk, but Arnon had been taught to despise such silly affectations. Now she would be forced to do the baby-role, for which she felt temperamentally unfitted. She frowned thoughtfully. If she had been at a disadvantage in Jerusalem, where at least she could talk like an adult, how would she feel in Rome? It worried her so much that she asked the question of Antipas who, summoned from his day-dreaming, replied absently, 'You will not feel strange—after a day or two.'

But she did. The great, garish, clamorous city bewildered her. The elaborate house to which Antipas brought her was conducted in a manner utterly unfamiliar. She had such difficulty in making the servants understand her wishes that she soon gave up trying to be the mistress of her home and allowed the score or more of slaves to run the establishment as they pleased. Often they were drunk, always they were lazy; it was suspected that the butler was dishonest. The meals were late and indifferently served. The rooms were untidy. Antipas coolly remarked that he had never lived less comfortably. He did not say it was Arnon's fault; but whose else could it be?

Their first social evening out was at the home of Mark Varus. Antipas had reminded Claudia that his Arabian Princess would be having language difficulties which might make her seem ill at ease, and would Claudia limit the number of her guests to a very small company who could be depended on to understand Arnon's predicament. So Claudia had invited only twenty.

The first person to be introduced was Arnon's sister-in-law, Herodias, who spread a wide, red mouth, nodded gaily to her new relative—as if they had known each other since childhood—and threw her long, slim, jingling arms around Antipas' neck, drawing him to her in a daring embrace. Lagging behind Herodias was a sheepishly grinning, baldish man whom Arnon readily guessed was Poor Philip. He advanced shyly and spoke in Aramaic.

'Thrice welcome, Princess Arnon, to this overestimated city. I am Philip, the pampered husband of that lady who is so firmly attached to my brother. We are, as you see, a devoted family.'

Arnon smiled at this persiflage, but couldn't help feeling shocked over Philip's indifference to his wife's sluttish behaviour.

'They must be very warm friends,' she said, trying to be casual.

Claudia had turned away to greet arriving guests. Herodias had eased her grip on Antipas and was whispering earnestly into his ear. Mark Varus, flushed and lusty, approached to say—in Greek, 'So—at last—we have the lovely Princess of Arabia with us!'

Arnon smiled, only half understanding.

'Her Greek isn't very nimble yet, Mark,' said Philip. 'Know any Aramaic?'

Mark said 'Very little,' and proceeded to prove it by discoursing, in extravagant terms, of the new villa in Galilee. Arnon, who knew less about the villa than Mark knew about Aramaic, could only say that she hoped to see it, some day. Mark's intuition suggesting that this topic might profitably be dropped now, he offered her his arm and led her—with a proprietorial swagger—among the groups of guests, introducing her to faces rather than names. Arnon had a feeling that no one knew who she was or cared very much. They smirked, nodded, and continued their loud-pitched conversations in which three or four women seemed endeavouring to talk one another down. Arnon was stunned by the confusion. She had never been in a place so astoundingly noisy or so appallingly rude.

Mark Varus continued to drag her about in a manner that made it difficult to maintain any dignity at all, as if he were exhibiting a blooded colt, pinioning her arm tightly under his, while he gaily shouted greetings to new arrivals. Arnon turned about to look for Antipas, but he was lost in the crowd; probably had forgotten her.

Presently an elaborate dinner was served, the guests lounging languidly on an elbow in the deep upholstery of divans drawn close together about a long table. Mark, seated next to Arnon, was most attentive, embarrassingly attentive, finding frequent occasion to bend over her in an effort to serve her plate personally with some delicacy. She instinctively drew away from these intimate contacts; and Mark's ardour, after a few unmistakable rebuffs, suddenly cooled. Turning from her, he attempted to attract the attention of Herodias on the other side, but finding her wholly preoccupied with Antipas, he laboriously resumed his attention to the Arabian Princess, scolding her gently for her abstinence. Arnon tried to explain that it was not a custom among her people to drink intoxicants. Sometimes, she said, their men had a glass of wine, but it was not considered suitable for an Arabian woman to drink at all.

Philip, who was seated next to her, overheard the conversation and leaned forward to remark that one was expected to drink deeply at Roman banquets.

'It annoys half-drunken people,' he went on drolly, 'to talk to anybody who remains sober. It embarrasses them. That's why Varus presses you to imbibe, Princess Arnon. He means it well enough. He is your host—and he wants you to be a social success.'

Mark listened with a frown, but made no comment.

'And I won't be a success—unless I'm a little bit drunk?' inquired Arnon.

'Well,' drawled Philip, with a chuckle, 'that's one way of saying it—but I never heard it put so briefly and clearly before.'

He caught Mark's eye and was rewarded with a scowl and a shrug.

'I'm afraid I am not going to like it very well—in Rome,' murmured Arnon. It was some time before Philip commented on that. Regarding her soberly, he said, 'No—you couldn't. My brother should not have brought you here. You are of a texture much too fine to be soiled with this degradation.'

For an instant Arnon searched Philip's eyes, suspecting that he was taunting her, but found him seriously sincere.

'Perhaps you too would be happier—somewhere else,' she said.

'Anywhere else,' he replied.

* * * * * *

After a few weeks of earnest but unsuccessful endeavours to accommodate herself to the
mores
of Rome, Arnon gave up trying and begged Antipas to excuse her from further attendance at banquets.

'And am I to spend my evenings at home, then?' he demanded testily. 'Is it your idea that I should live the life of a hermit in a cave?'

There was only one reasonable answer to that. Arnon assured him that he was quite free to go alone, whenever and wherever he pleased; which he did. It was not long before they were seeing very little of each other, making no effort to repair their estrangement.

One evening in early autumn when Arnon was about to sit down to a solitary dinner, Philip surprised her by calling. She insisted upon his dining with her, and he seemed glad to accept. She found it easy to talk with Philip, whose reticence everybody mistook for stupidity. It was not long before the conversation was becoming quite personal—by mutual consent, for they were both lonely. Arnon's life in Rome, Philip was saying, must have turned out to be very tiresome. Tiresome, said Arnon, wasn't the word she would have used, but it was at least that.

'Sometimes,' declared Philip dreamily, 'I can hardly endure it. I have often thought of running away—to Sicily, perhaps, to live alone'—he seemed talking to himself now, with eyes half closed—'in the country, in a little house, on a green hillside, with fruits and flowers to cultivate, trees, grass, sunsets, and a friendly dog or two.'

'But would you be happy—without your family?' asked Arnon, when he had ended.

'I have no family,' he muttered. 'Herodias is never at home. I do not ask where she spends her time.'

'Why don't you?' ventured Arnon. 'She is your wife.'

'For the same reason that you do not ask Antipas where he spends his time,' said Philip. He chuckled unpleasantly. 'I dare say that if we inquired of their present whereabouts we would find them in the same place.'

'You mean—they are often together?'

'They are always together! And if I were you, Arnon, I should leave for Arabia at once—before this scandal humiliates you—and your people.'

Arnon's heart beat hard and her throat hurt.

'I think that was why you came to see me tonight,' she said weakly. 'You thought it was high time for me to know.'

Philip nodded, without meeting her eyes.

'Everyone else knows,' he said. 'Why shouldn't you?'

Next morning the unavoidable interview between Antipas and Arnon terminated their unhappy alliance. To his considerable relief, the Prince's scandalous behaviour was not discussed. Arnon simply stated that Rome was no place for an Arabian Princess to hope for happiness, and Antipas cheerfully agreed that her return to her own people was the only solution to their problem. He would arrange for it without delay.

A well-appointed pleasure barge was chartered, stocked with everything that might make the long voyage comfortable. A score of trusted men, experienced in handling caravans, were engaged to safeguard the overland journey from the port at Gaza.

On the day before the sailing, Antipas tried to turn the conversation toward the probable attitude of King Aretas. Reassuring Arnon on the wisdom of her decision to return home, he added pleasantly, 'And how pleased your father will be to have you come back to him! I am sure he has been lonely without you.'

Arnon frowned, pursed her lips, and stared squarely into his uneasy eyes. He shifted his position and made a pretence of casualness. Slowly lowering her head, she continued to search his face from under her long lashes. She gave him a slow, enigmatic smile.

'My father will welcome his daughter's return to his tent,' she said, measuring her words. 'But Aretas, the King of Arabia, may not be pleased when he learns that the Princess of Arabia has been put to shame by an alien enemy.'

'Meaning that he will seek revenge?' Antipas was serious now and his voice was unsteady.

'Prince Antipas is not well versed in Arabian history,' replied Arnon, 'if he thinks that this indignity might be easily overlooked.'

The implied warning disposed of the Prince's suavity and self-assurance. He paced the floor, flushed and angry.

'Let the King of Arabia do what he will!' he shouted. 'Doubtless the Princess will put the worst possible construction on her difficulties. She will not tell the King that she made no effort to fulfil her obligations to her husband.' He paused in his march and regarded her sternly. 'I have not injured you! On the contrary, you are abandoning me! And I may as well tell you now that when your ship has sailed tomorrow I shall execute a bill of divorcement—on the grounds of desertion!'

Arnon suddenly sat erect. Her eyes lighted.

'Do you really mean that?' she exclaimed. 'Accept my thanks, Antipas, for this gracious favour!'

Stunned by this unexpected blow to his vanity, he studied her eyes soberly. No—she was not ironical. She meant it sincerely. He had hesitated to hand her this crushing news—and now it was evident that she was delighted to receive it. He bowed stiffly and walked toward the door, where he turned for a final word.

'You will find on the barge a young, well-born Greek slave, whom I bought yesterday at considerable cost. She is your personal property. I hope you will take her with you. She reads, writes, and speaks Greek fluently. In addition to her other duties, perhaps she will teach my little daughter a more graceful language than the crude imitation of Aramaic that is spoken in Arabia.'

Arnon flushed a little.

'Whether our language is crude or not,' she retorted, 'depends on who speaks it! And—I want no parting gift from you.'

'As you like,' said Antipas indifferently. 'The Greek slave will be on the barge, and she is your property. If you do not want her—pitch her overboard.'

The Prince did not appear when the ship sailed. Arnon had not expected him, and was not disappointed. At the last minute before the hawsers were hauled aboard, Philip arrived in a surprisingly happy mood. He led her a little way apart on the afterdeck for a final word.

'This is a good day for you,' he said gaily—'and for me too! You are going home to people who love you, freed from everything that has made your life unpleasant.'

'And you?' queried Arnon.

'I too am free! Herodias has informed me that she and my brother want to be married; and would I divorce her. Would I? I do not often move with so much alacrity. And I am sailing in a week, for Sicily.'

'How fortunate you are, Philip,' said Arnon. 'I do hope you will be contented there. I shall often think of you—in your garden.' She lowered her voice. 'The Prince may have told you that he is divorcing me.'

Philip nodded.

'I was gratified and a bit surprised that Antipas found the courage to tell you himself. My brother has always disliked to admit that he is a scoundrel.'

After farewells were said and the ship had cast off, Arnon was conducted to her commodious cabin, where an uncommonly bright and pretty young woman, of nearly her own age, was unpacking her boxes. She had quite forgotten about the slave. The girl made a deep curtsey, with eyes timidly averted, and continued with her task.