The Prince Who Would Be King

BEN SOLOMON
Chapter 1 - The Prince Who Would Be Kng.

            Prince Abel ben Solomon, age ten, cracked his whip over a frantic-eyed team of ponies drawing a dwarf-sized chariot down a narrow palace corridor. They raced out of control, only he didn’t know it.
            He clutched the reins screaming, “When I’m a man I will be king! I will ride in the great chariot races just like my father.”
            “Hold!” The blur of a guard with outstretched hands whizzed by. His shout panicked the ponies. They swerved into an intersecting corridor that led to an assembly room. The chariot tipped on one wheel and slammed into the wall. The draw bar broke with a loud crack! 
            The boy hung on to the reins as the team’s momentum pulled him over the forward edge of the chariot. He skidded into the midst of palace courtiers, scattering them in all directions. One man, a head taller than the others, could not get out of the way and Abel bowled him over.
            The leather straps slid out of the boy’s hands and the ponies disappeared down a corridor. A hush fell over the hall. The only noise was a wheel of the up-ended chariot whirring on its axle. The king picked himself off the floor and adjusted his crown. The prince sprawled before the towering royal majesty who plucked him from the floor as a mother lion would lift her cub by the scruff of its neck.
                “Now, what is all this?” Solomon said, none too gently. He held the boy face to face.
         “Sire, I am the King’s son and all must make way.”
         “Must the King make way, too?”
         “Of course not, Father, but…” The boy’s bravado began to slip. “It wasn’t my fault,” He hung his head and said, “The ponies were supposed to go straight.”
         “So you lost control?” The stern look of judgment stared the boy down. “I tolerate the honest mistakes of men,” Solomon said, “ but woe to him who tries to shift blame to someone or something else.”
         The king lowered Abel to the floor, brushed off his tunic and retied the sash around his waist. “You disobeyed!” He loomed over the boy with hands on his hips.
                Abel waited for the king’s wrath to vent itself and the forthcoming lecture.
                “You were to drive the chariot only when your tutor or other responsible person accompanied you.  You have shown a callous disregard for the dignity and self-respect of others. You have caused great embarrassment to my guests and myself, and have severely disrupted an important affair of state.” He grabbed Abel by the shoulders and spun him around to face the palace guests. “You will apologize to each person present!”
                A chagrined Abel nodded and stepped forward. He moved to each statesman in turn and bowed, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”  I’m sorry I have to humiliate myself like this, he said to himself.  A son of the King doesn’t go around apologizing to people. They apologize to him for being in his way. With the last apology, Abel turned to leave the hall.
                “Not so fast!” Solomon called out.
         Now what?
         “A breach of courtesy this severe requires much more than a mere bend of the body.” In a softer voice, the king said, “Boy, come here.”
         Abel shuffled over to where the King stood. He squared his shoulders, ready to deal with whatever faced him.
         “I’ve been thinking,” Solomon said. “It’s about time you learned of the world beyond these palace walls.”
         A commotion beyond the fringe of the small crowd that had gathered interrupted the king. A short chub of a man dressed in the livery of a palace domestic, pushed his way through. He puffed, out of breath.
         “Ah, Teacher. There you are,” Solomon said.  He gestured toward the smashed chariot with its still spinning wheel. “What is your explanation for this mess? I‘d like to know how those creatures and that contraption got inside the palace.”
         The tutor raised a rumpled sleeve and wiped his perspiring brow. “A thousand pardons, Milord! Today, I am afflicted with a rumbling stomach,” he said, in anguish. “I stepped aside to urgently relieve myself. When I returned, the boy, the team, the chariot…gone!”
         The tutor punctuated his statement with a no-fault shrug. The wimpy gesture enraged Solomon. “Obviously, Teacher,” he thundered, “you failed to properly tether the ponies and provided a head strong ten year old with an irresistible temptation!” 
         “But, Sire! There was no time to…!”
         “Enough!”
         Abel snickered. Just couldn’t hold his farts.
                The king motioned to two nearby palace guards. “Take this ‘expert’ in child and pony behavior to the stables. During the next twelve months give him ample opportunity to expand his knowledge with a well applied broom.”
         The soldiers moved to either side of the hapless man and slipped an arm under his shoulders. They marched off and the tutor’s toes dangled on the marble floor like a dancing puppet.
         Solomon turned and addressed his son. “Now then. We have just compounded the problem. There is the matter of retribution to our guests, as well as the need for a new and proper tutor. I could order you to one month’s servitude for each of our guests, but this could affect the continuity of your education.”
The King paced back and forth and appeared to muse over the problem. He muttered, “Tutoring a prince is a grave responsibility. Who would take on such a task?” He stopped pacing and faced the group.  “Who will have the boy as an apprentice?” His words bounced off the palace walls. No one spoke. Only the fading tick-tick-tick of the slowing chariot wheel answered.
         After what seemed an eternity a clear strong voice broke the verbal silence. “I’ll take the boy, Sire.”  Heads jerked in the direction of the voice, which belonged to a hawk-nosed man dressed in a long white voluminous gown and a wide purple sash. A bright red burnoose, fastened with a twisted gold band, draped his head and shoulders. He grinned, flashing two pairs of gold teeth where his upper and lower incisors should have been.
         “Well said, Bedouin.” The king smiled, obviously pleased. “But there are stipulations.”
         “What are the stipulations, Sire?”
         “He is still a child and therefore, he shall attend to your needs during the waking hours, only, and will be allowed to retire to his quarters at sunset. Most importantly, he will not be available to you during the Sabbath.”
         “I accept the stipulations.  When do we begin?”
         “Tomorrow at daybreak.” Solomon placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and nudged him forward. “Now let’s get your things together.”
         When both were out of sight and hearing of the astonished courtiers, Solomon said to the boy. “It is as I would have ordered. Get to know the Bedouin and his work.  Although he is not of our People, I’ve had dealings with him for a long time. Trust him implicitly, but be aware of those around him.”
         “Yes, Sire.”
         “Above all, fear him not. He may appear to be rough and brusque, but he is a mortal man just like the rest of us.”
                “Yes, Sire.”
         “Pay close attention to his business.  I hear the Bedouin people breed camels - a strange animal, the likes of which I had never seen before until a few years ago when Sheba paid us a visit. It is said they can carry heavy loads and cross vast stretches of desert without water. I find this hard to believe.”
         “Yes, Sire.”
         “When you complete your service we shall talk again and you will tell me what you learned.” Solomon paused. “Do you have any questions?”
         “Uh…yes, Sire. What about the tutor?”          
         “Fear not for his welfare, Son. You’ve outgrown his services and it is time to move on. Your chariot incident was the perfect moment to replace him. No harm will come to him, and eventually he will resume teaching somewhere else in the palace system. Now get yourself ready.”
         “But, Sire…?”
         “Yes?”
         “Why am I being apprenticed to the Bedouin?”
         “For proper grooming to become a valued member of the king’s staff.” Solomon started to walk away
         “When do I begin training to become king?”
                The unexpected question halted Solomon. He paused…“I’m sorry, Son. The Throne of David is not yours to claim. Now, go see your mother before you leave.” He turned and hurried away.
                The king’s response hit Able in the pit of his stomach. He rushed down the hall and burst through the door of his mother’s chamber blurting, “Father says I will never be king!”
                Queen Sharelli opened her arms and embraced him in a tight consoling hug. “Tsh, Tsh,” she said, stroking his curly hair. “Your father has these grand delusions of being the wisest man in the kingdom.” She kissed away the hot salty tears. “But we know better, don’t we.” The two rocked back and forth. “Remember when we visited Grandfather Pharaoh? Just before he died, he said you would do great things and visit many lands and peoples. Only a great king is capable of such ventures.”
                  Abel sobbed. And all because of a silly chariot incident.