The Ring of Solomon

over olive groves and barley fields, and dropped and skimmed down steep terraces of fig. Stage by stage Solomon’s little kingdom rolled beneath me, until in the distance I saw the rooftops of his capital, scattered like glittering fish scales on its hill.
    A few years previously Jerusalem had been a dowdy little town, not especially notable, and certainly not to be compared with capitals such as Nimrud, Babylon or Thebes. Now, it vied with those ancient cities as a place of wealth and splendour – and the reason for this wasn’t hard to guess.
    It was all about the Ring.
    The Ring. That was at the heart of it all. That was why Jerusalem flourished. That was why my masters jumped at Solomon’s command. That was why so many magicians congregated around him in the first place, like bloated fleas on a leper’s dog, like moths around a flame.
    It was thanks entirely to the Ring he wore upon his finger that Solomon enjoyed his life of indolence, and Israel its unparalleled prosperity. It was thanks to the Ring’s sinister reputation that the once-great empires of Egypt and Babylon now kept their wary distance, and watched their frontiers with anxious eyes.
    It was all about the Ring.
    Personally speaking, I hadn’t actually seen this benighted artefact close up – but then again, I hadn’t needed to. Even from a distance, I understood its power. All magical objects emit an aura, and the more powerful they are, the brighter that aura is. Once, when Solomon had passed me in the distance, I’d briefly checked the higher planes. The flow of light made me cry out in pain. Something on his person glowed so fearsomely he was almost blotted out. It was like staring into the sun.
    From what I’d heard, the thing itself wasn’t actually much to look at – just a gold band inlaid with a single gem of black obsidian. But stories said it contained a spirit of supreme power, who was brought forth whenever the Ring was turned upon the finger; merely touching the Ring, meanwhile, summoned a retinue of marids, afrits and djinn to serve the wearer’s will. In other words it was a portable gateway to the Other Place, through which almost unlimited numbers of spirits could be drawn. 6
    Solomon had access to this awful power on a moment’s whim, and without personal danger. The usual rigours of the magician’s trade were unknown to him. No fiddling with candles or getting chalky knees. No chance of getting fried, roasted or plain old eaten. And no chance either of being murdered by rivals or discontented slaves.
    In one place a slight scratch was said to mar the Ring; this was where the great marid Azul, taking advantage of an ambiguity in his master’s phrasing, had attempted to destroy it while carrying Solomon by carpet from Lachish to Beth-zur. Azul’s petrified form, worn ever thinner by the desert winds, now stood in lonely isolation above the Lachish road.
    Earlier in his reign two other marids, Philocretes and Odalis, had also tried to slay the king. Their subsequent careers were similarly melancholy: Philocretes became an echo in a copper pot and Odalis a startled face etched into a floor tile in the royal bathroom.
    Many such stories were told about the Ring, and it was no surprise that Solomon lived a cushy life as a result. The sheer power and dread exerted by that scrap of gold upon his finger kept all his magicians and their spirits nicely in line, thank you. The threat of its use hovered over us all.
    Noon came; my journey was at an end. I crossed high above the Kidron Gate, above the teeming markets and bazaars, and finally swung low over the palace and its gardens. In these last few moments my burden felt particularly heavy, and it was fortunate for Solomon that he wasn’t at that moment promenading along his gravel walkways. If I’d seen him, I’d have been sorely tempted to zoom down and offload my cargo of ripe artichokes directly on his preening head, before chasing his wives into the fountains. But all was still. The phoenix continued sedately towards its appointed landing site: namely a scrappy compound at the back end of the palace, where sour smells rose from the slaughtering sheds, and the gates to the kitchens were always open.
    I descended swiftly, dropped my burden to the ground and alighted, taking the form of a handsome youth as I did so. 7
    A band of imps scampered forward, ready to carry my net towards the kitchen. Stalking alongside came a plump djinni overseer, long papyrus scrolls in