The Ring of Solomon

Solomon regarded it. The hall was silent. The lion-afrits blinked down at the people with their golden eyes, their velvet fore-paws lightly crossed, their tails flicking occasionally on the stones behind. Above the throne the djinn hung waiting, motionless save for the lazy beat of their eagle wings. Out in the gardens butterflies moved like flecks of sunlight among the brightness of the trees.
    At last the king spoke; he sat back upon the cedar throne. ‘It is a pretty object. With his last act, poor Ezekiel served me well.’ He raised a hand to signal to the djinn for wine, and since it was his right hand, a ripple of relief ran around the hall. The magicians relaxed; the wives began arguing amongst themselves; and one by one the assembled petitioners of a dozen lands raised their heads to gaze in fearful admiration at the king.
    In no way was Solomon ill-favoured. He had been spared the poxes in his youth, and though now into middle age, his skin remained smooth and creamy as a child’s. In fifteen years upon the throne, indeed, he had not changed markedly, remaining dark of eye and skin, narrow-faced, with black hair hanging loose about his shoulders. His nose was long and straight, his lips full, his eyes lined with green-black kohl after the Egyptian style. Above his splendid silken robes – sent as a gift from the magician-priests of India – he wore many wondrous treasures of gold and jade, sapphire earrings, necklaces of Nubian ivory, amber beads from far Cimmeria. Silver bangles hung about his wrists, while on one ankle rested a thin gold band. Even his kid-skin sandals, a dowry present from the King of Tyre, were studded with gold and semi-precious stones. But his long slim hands were naked of jewels or decoration – save for the little finger of the left, which bore a ring.
    The king sat waiting as the djinn poured wine into his golden goblet; he waited as, with golden prongs, they added to it berries from the windswept Anatolian hills, and ice from the summit of Mount Lebanon. And the people gazed on him as he waited, basking in the glamour of his power, his radiance like the sun’s.
    The ice was mixed; the wine was ready. On soundless wings the djinn retreated above the throne. Solomon considered the goblet, but did not drink. He returned his attention to the hall.
    ‘My magicians,’ he said, addressing a circle of men and women at the forefront of the crowd, ‘you have all done well. In a single night you have retrieved many fascinating artefacts from across the world.’ With a wave of the goblet he indicated the row of seventeen plinths before him, each topped with its own small treasure. ‘All are doubtless extraordinary, and will shed light on the ancient cultures that precede us. I shall study them with interest. Hiram, you may have them removed.’
    The vizier, a small, dark-skinned magician from distant Kush, snapped to immediate attention. He gave an order. Seventeen slaves – human, or in human form – ran forth and carried the golden serpent and the other treasures from the hall.
    When all was still, the vizier swelled out his chest, took his staff by its ruby pommel and banged it thrice upon the floor. ‘Attention!’ he cried. ‘Solomon’s council shall now proceed! There are several issues of great moment to bring before the king. As ever, we shall all benefit from the bounty of his wisdom. First—’
    But Solomon had raised a lazy hand, and as it was the left , the vizier broke off at once, choking on his words and blanching.
    ‘Saving your pardon, Hiram,’ the king said silkily, ‘the first business is already before us. My magician Ezekiel was killed this morning. The spirit who slew him – do we know its identity?’
    The vizier cleared his throat. ‘Master, we do. From the remains of Ezekiel’s cylinder, we have deduced the offender. Bartimaeus of Uruk is its favoured title.’
    Solomon frowned. ‘Have I heard report of one with that name?’
    ‘Yes, Master. Only yesterday. It was overheard singing a song of extraordinary insolence, which featured—’
    ‘Thank you, I recall it.’ The king stroked his handsome chin. ‘Bartimaeus … of Uruk – a city two thousand years gone. So it is a most ancient demon. A marid, I assume?’
    The vizier bowed low. ‘No, Master. I believe not.’
    ‘An afrit, then.’
    The vizier bowed still lower; his chin almost touched the marble floor. ‘Master, it is in fact a djinni of moderate strength and power. Fourth level,