The Ring of Solomon

Sun God, with their big old backsides raised to heaven, and cautiously looked around. The other girls were busy praying too, eyes tight shut, noses pressed against the stone. As the drone of their ritual chanting swelled to fill the air, the little girl got up, tiptoed past them all and clambered out of the window. She ran across the flat roof of the training hall, skittered along the wall beside the palace gardens, and dropped like a cat into the shadows of the street. Then she smoothed out her dress, rubbed her shin where it had scraped against the brickwork, and pattered down the hill. She knew she would get a beating when she returned, but she didn’t care. She wanted to see the procession.
    They were throwing orange blossom from the tower-tops, and the people of Sheba had been covered with it like snow. All along the streets they waited – townsfolk and men of the hill-tribes alike – waiting patiently for their queen. The little girl did not wish to stand at the front of the crowd, in case she was crushed beneath the chariot’s great wheels, so she scrambled up the wooden steps to the nearest guard post, where two slim women with swords at their belts stood watching the crowds below.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ one said, frowning. ‘You ought to be in training. Get back up to the hall, quickly.’
    But the other ruffled the girl’s cropped dark hair. ‘Too late for that. Listen – here they come! Sit down and stay quiet, Asmira, and perhaps we won’t notice you.’
    The little girl grinned, sat cross-legged on the stone between their feet. She leaned her chin on her fists, then craned her neck out; she saw the royal chariot come rumbling through the gates, pulled by its team of straining male slaves. The throne it bore was golden like the sun, and on it – vast and splendid, dressed in bright white robes that made her vaster still – sat the queen herself. She was like a painted statue, stiff and immovable, her round face white with chalk, staring straight ahead without expression. On either side marched guards with naked swords; to the rear filed the priestesses in a solemn line. On the chariot itself, just behind the throne, the First Guard stood smiling, her dark hair glistening in the sun.
    Into the city the procession came. The people cheered; blossom fell from the towers in new cascades. High on the guard post, the little girl grinned and jiggled. She waved both hands.
    On the far side of the narrow way, in the shadows of the nearest tower, there came a burst of yellow smoke. Three small winged demons, with scarlet eyes and whipping tails of sharpened bone, materialized in mid-air. At once the guards beside the girl were gone into the crowd. Those beside the chariot also started forward, swords readied, daggers pulled from sleeves.
    Screams sounded, the crowd scattered. The demons darted through the air. One was struck simultaneously by seven silver blades and vanished with a cry. The others spun aside on leather wings, sending loops of fire down upon the advancing guards.
    The little girl watched none of this. Her eyes were fixed upon the halted chariot, where the queen sat silent, staring straight ahead. The First Guard had not left her post; she had drawn her sword and stood calmly beside the throne.
    And now the real attack began. Three hill-men stole out of the melting crowd, ran towards the unprotected chariot. From within their robes they drew long thin knives.
    The First Guard waited. When the quickest assailant leaped towards the queen, she ran him through before his feet touched the ground. His falling weight pulled the sword out of her grasp; letting it go, she turned to meet the others, a dagger springing to her hand.
    The others reached the chariot; they jumped up on either side of the throne.
    The First Guard flicked her wrist – one was struck; he fell away. In the same instant she threw herself across the queen, blocking the final knife-strike with her body. She collapsed upon the royal lap, long black hair falling loose about her head.
    The other guards, having dealt with the demons, discovered the danger behind them. In a moment the third assailant had died from a dozen wounds. The guards surged around the chariot, dragged the bodies clear.
    Orders were given. The slaves pulled on the ropes to the rhythm of the whips, and the chariot continued on. Blossom cascaded onto empty streets. The queen stared straight before her, white-faced and impassive, the lap of her robes