The Ring of Solomon

helping her out in temple rituals, participating (reluctantly) in her mass sacrifices of dogs and servants, burying her at last in a lead-lined tomb, 3 I’d seen priestesses up close and personal. And whether they were the well-heeled Babylonian sort, or the screeching maenads you found capering around Greek bushes, they were in general a formidable lot – high-level magicians who were quick to blast a djinni with the essence-lance for the most footling indiscretions, such as accidentally toppling their ziggurat or laughing at their thighs.
    But one thing they weren’t well known for was their personal prowess in the heat of battle.
    South Arabian priestesses might be different, of course. I wasn’t an expert in the region, and I simply couldn’t say. But whatever the case, it was fair to say that this Priestess Cyrine, supposedly of the distant kingdom of Himyar, was rather more intriguing than the average traveller coming to Jerusalem, and I was somehow glad I’d saved her.
    Yet, as Faquarl had pointed out (at interminable length), my gesture hadn’t done us a blind bit of good. Nothing had changed. She’d gone, we were slaves, and the eternal stars above us still shone coldly down. 4
    *
    The moon rose higher, and the murmur on the streets below grew slowly stilled. With the gates of the city long since closed, the night markets were shutting now, and the people of Jerusalem trudged home to rest, recuperate and renew the fabric of their lives. Oil lamps flickered in the windows, Solomon’s imp-lights illuminated each corner, and from across the mosaic of rooftop ovens drifted the odours of mutton, garlic and fried lentils, all of which smelled a good deal better than burned camel.
    High on Khaba’s tower the circle of imps had finished whooping, jeering and flicking their tails in my direction, and were considering moving on to a discussion of the influence of religion on regional politics in the east Mediterranean littoral, when there was an odd squeaking sound in our midst.
    ‘Nimshik, have you been at the pickled mites again?’
    ‘No! That wasn’t me!’
    For once the truth of his words was borne out by the sight of a heavy flagstone tilting upwards in the centre of the roof. From beneath appeared a pair of gleaming eyes, a nose like an unripe aubergine, and the distasteful upper portions of the foliot Gezeri, who squinted evilly all around.
    ‘Bartimaeus and Faquarl!’ he called. ‘Look lively! You’re wanted.’
    Neither of us moved an inch. ‘Wanted where?’ I said. ‘And by whom?’
    ‘Oh, by His Royal Majesty King Solomon the Great, of course,’ the foliot said, leaning his bony elbows casually on the roof. ‘He wishes you to attend him in his private apartments in order to thank you personally for your sterling work today.’
    Faquarl and I shuffled at once into more attentive positions. ‘Really?’
    ‘Noooooo, of course not, you idiots!’ the foliot cried. ‘What would Solomon care about you ? It’s our master, Khaba the Cruel, what wants you. Who else would it be? And,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘he don’t want you in the summoning room neither, but down in the vaults below the tower. So it don’t look good for either of you, does it?’ he leered. ‘There’s not many goes down there comes swiftly up again.’
    An uncomfortable silence fell upon the rooftop. Faquarl and I looked at each other. The other djinn, caught between horror at the implications and immense relief that it wasn’t them, studied their claws intently, or considered the stars, or began industriously picking at bits of lichen between the flag-stones. None of them wanted to catch our eyes.
    ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Gezeri cried. ‘Step to it, the pair of you!’
    Faquarl and I rose, ducked stiffly beneath the flagstone, and with the eager energy of two criminals shuffling to the gallows, set off down the stairs. Behind us, Gezeri lowered the stone once more, and we were left in darkness.
    Khaba’s tower, being one of the tallest in Jerusalem, was composed of many levels. The exterior was whitewashed and on most days blazed with light; the interior, mirroring its owner’s personality, was altogether less radiant. Hitherto, the only bit I’d seen first-hand was the magician’s summoning room on one of the upper floors – we passed this almost immediately as we spiralled ever downwards, me first, Faquarl next, Gezeri’s big flat feet slapping on the stones behind. Other doors went by,