The Ring of Solomon

stained red.
    The body of the First Guard lay in the shadow of the city gate while the line of priestesses shuffled by. After they were gone it took several further minutes for shocked attendants to return to clear the street, and even then no one noticed the little girl sitting high upon the guard post, watching as her mother’s body was carried up the hill.
    Asmira opened her eyes. All was as it had been just before she slept. The tasselled shadow of her canopy swaying upon the camel’s back. The line of beasts ahead of her, stretching into nothing. The creak of the poles and the soft steady tread of pads on stone … Heat scoured her mouth; her head ached. Her clothes were a wet cocoon.
    She moistened her lips with her water-skin, ignoring the temptation to drink deeply. Nine days in the desert, and three since fresh water, and still the road went on. All around was a land of desolation and absence, of bleached hills fading to the edge of vision. The sun was a white hole in an iron sky. It warped the air into slices that danced and shimmered and were never still.
    Always, when she dozed during those endless desert days, Asmira found herself beset by whirling dreams that looped, repeating, stinging like blown sand. She saw the Queen of Sheba smiling in her chamber, pouring her more wine. She saw the priestesses on the palace forecourt, with the djinni raised and waiting, and all eyes on her as she bade farewell. She saw the Temple of the Sun and its eastern wall, where the icons of dead champions were displayed and her mother’s figurine shone so beautifully in the morning light. She saw the empty niche beside it that she had coveted so long.
    And sometimes … sometimes she saw her mother, the way she had always seen her, for eleven frozen years.
    That evening the camel train halted in the shelter of a sandstone ridge. Brushwood was gathered, a fire lit. The master of the caravan, who had some magical knowledge, sent forth imps to survey the rocks and give word if anything drew near.
    Afterwards he approached Asmira, who was gazing at the fire. ‘Still here, I see,’ he said.
    Asmira was stiff, weary and weighed down with impatience at the tedium of the journey. Nevertheless, she managed a smile. ‘Why should I not be?’
    The master was a large and jaunty man, twinkly-eyed and broad of chest. Asmira found him somewhat disconcerting. He chuckled. ‘Each night I check to ensure everyone is human still, and not a ghul or fetch! They say that once a camel-master rode into Petra with thirty traders in his train; as he passed beneath the city gates, each rider’s cloak fell empty to the ground, and, looking back, he saw the way for miles behind littered with picked bones. All the men had been devoured, one by one!’
    The guard-mothers had told Asmira that story too, about a trader of Marib. ‘A folktale,’ she said. ‘Nothing more.’
    The master took out his djinn-guard and shook its silver bells fervently. ‘Even so, vigilance is essential. Deserts are dangerous places and not all is what it seems.’
    Asmira was staring at the moon. It was a thin crescent now, and shone bright above the ridge. The sight gave her a sharp knot in her stomach. ‘We made good progress today,’ she said. ‘Will we reach Jerusalem tomorrow?’
    The camel-master adjusted his paunch slightly and shook his head. ‘The day after, if all goes well. But tomorrow evening I shall relax, for by then we will be drawing near the city. No desert demons will dare attack us under good Solomon’s kind and watchful eye.’
    In the fire’s light Asmira saw the towers of Marib burning. The knot in her stomach broke asunder. ‘Good?’ she said harshly. ‘Kind? These are not descriptions I had heard of Solomon.’
    ‘Indeed?’ The camel-master raised his eyebrows. ‘What have you heard?’
    ‘That he is a cruel warlord, who threatens weaker nations!’
    ‘Well, there are many tales told about him,’ the camel-master admitted, ‘and I dare say not all of them are to his credit. But you will find many in this company who believe differently to you; they come to Jerusalem to seek his charity, or ask him to sit in judgement on difficult matters. No? You do not believe me? Ask them.’
    ‘Perhaps I will.’
    As night came and the flames rose high, Asmira fell into conversation with the person sitting beside her at the fire. He was a spice merchant bound for Tyre, a young man, bearded, with a quiet and courteous manner. ‘You have