Chapter 1: The Horse’s Baggage

 

Aviva was not surprised, only annoyed, when a strange horse interrupted her walk home from Market and tried to nose its greedy way into her purchased bag of malabar spinach; the surprise came a moment later when she realized that sprawled across its back was a very attractive, well-dressed young man who seemed near death.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, Horse, what stall were you shopping at?”

But beneath the askew pile of hair, the talk of nonsense, and the constant turmeric stains beat the heart of a woman who had tended to a sick mother and then a sick sweetheart for nearly all her young life. Slipping into the caregiving role to which she was accustomed -- or as she thought of it, God’s purpose for her -- she put a finger to the man’s temple and saw that he yet lived. She also saw that dried blood had collected around several places that looked as though they might have brought him to the edge of survival.

Hefting the lightweight but unwieldy sack of leaves over one shoulder, she took the horse by the bridle and led it back toward the palace. Aviva was the second cook there, but her primary duty was as Queen Shulamit’s personal chef. She had a habit of going to market herself instead of sending kitchen servants like the head cook of the palace did, because it gave her ideas to wander among the colorful bounty of the stalls, and it gave her pride to manage the quality. This way, she could buy what had grown well that week, or what struck her fancy. She could also keep track of the cleanliness of her products that way -- the queen’s body had odd reactions to both wheat and fowl, and although Shulamit wasn’t so sensitive that she couldn’t bear to be in the room with it, Aviva felt safer buying the malabar if she knew it hadn’t had a chicken’s carcass resting up against it in a basket.

Aviva protected the queen’s health with a devoted fierceness, for she was also the queen’s sweetheart. Or “favorite,” as the fashionable word went. What a word -- it did make her feel a little bit like a halvah or something. Ooh! Halvah! When she could coax a true, full smile from Shulamit’s usually intense and studious face -- for Shulamit wasn’t one to smile unless genuinely happy -- a sweetness just like halvah flowed through Aviva’s body, and she resolved to tell her so the next time they had a comfortably private moment.

Even during this frivolous mental wandering, however, she never took one eye off the man on the back of the horse. His hair, like hers, was dark; it was curly and a bit of a mess. His skin was a little lighter than hers. Most likely this meant he had come from the west. A bit of stubble had grown across his face, but only just enough to hint he had stopped shaving because of his wounds. He was thin but healthy, except for all the blood. There was so much gold decoration on his clothing that her first thought was that he must be some sort of actor. Surely, nobody would wear anything like that on purpose.

Then she noticed the royal ring.

Queen Shulamit, sovereign of Perach, was sitting in the shade just inside the palace gates with her ladies in waiting. Her face broke into a broad smile when she saw her love returning, but of course she noticed the horse and its rider right away and raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

She opened her mouth to ask who it was, but Aviva beat her to the punch. “Your Majesty, we need a peaceful room and the doctor. A horse showed up with a dying prince on its back.”

 

***

 

The doctor and his nurses spent two hours with the prince in that quiet room, tending to his wounds and treating him with herbs and salves. Meanwhile, Shulamit paced outside, her thoughts dancing nervously around memories of her father’s deathbed. The resemblance of circumstance was only superficial, of course, but waiting outside a room, worrying while doctors worked, reminded her of those awful days in the past when she’d been inches away from a throne she was about to purchase with every last tear in her body. Then she was only a child-woman, and now she was grown and had settled into her crown. But she would never forget.

An open door and movement shifted her reverie back into attendance. “Is he awake?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the doctor.

“Will he live?”

“It’s too early to tell.”

“May I come in?”

“I suppose so,” said the doctor, “but don’t overtax him.”

“I’ll try to be gentle.” Shulamit stepped inside the room and took her first good look at the foreign prince. Yes, he was definitely from the west. There were several small city-states beyond the borders of Perach, but she wasn’t sure which one was his. Most of them had multiple princes. She began to narrow it down by age and style of dress. Poor man! She hoped he wasn’t going to die so far away from home. Did his family know where he was?

She had moved closer to him with each thought, and now she stood directly over him. “Who are you?”

With great effort, he opened his eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Would water help?”

“He’s had water,” said one of the nurses.

“I’m going to give him more. He’s trying to speak.” Shulamit picked up a jug and poured some water into her hand. She cupped it against his lips and tipped it up.

He did his best to drink. His breathing sounded strange and dangerous. “Do you know who I am?” Shulamit asked. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

He blinked, deliberately enough that she knew he had heard her, and understood.

“Can you tell me who you are? You’re among friends. Whoever did this to you, it wasn’t us. We’ll protect you.”

His lips moved again, and finally, with what seemed like all the effort from his entire body, he spoke for the first time. “Captain... Malabar. Only.”

Shulamit’s jaw dropped. What?

“Aviva found you, and she was carrying malabar. Her name is Aviva. She’s my cook. Do you want her to come back?”

His head twitched to the side. Was that no, or an involuntary gesture?

She reminded him about the blinking, and he blinked twice.

Then he said one more syllable, “Riv,” and passed out.

Shulamit clapped her hands to her face. Riv. Riv of Bitter Greens, Riv Maror. A strong warrior with a peppery personality, the captain of Shulamit’s palace Guard had easily earned the nickname, which was a variant on the original “Beet-greens” that had referenced an illegitimate conception and a farmhand father. Shulamit realized it must have gotten twisted into Riv Malabar as the legend of the northern mercenary had gossiped its way across into the west, into the prince’s land. For a moment, she was struck by how ill it fit Riv, given malabar’s mildness.

Captain Riv Malabar indeed.

But what did the prince want Riv for, anyway? “Where is the captain?” Shulamit asked the guard who was attending her at the moment. “I know it’s his and Isaac’s day off, but are they still hanging around here someplace?”

“No, Majesty,” said the guard. “They went off this morning out into the countryside.”

“We’ll just have to take care of him until they get back.” Shulamit felt strangely reluctant to leave the room, but she also wanted to see her darling, bizarre Aviva. Trust her to go to the marketplace for greens and come home with a dying prince!