Ring Of Solomon (4 page)

The pretty maiden tossed the serpent to the floor. She stepped forward out of her constraining pentacle. Away across the room, the magician had been winded; he lay there helpless, flapping like a fish.

The maiden passed the goat’s-fat candles, and as she did so, every single one of them winked out. Her foot glanced against a bowl of ward-herbs; rosemary spilled upon her skin, which fizzed and steamed. The maiden paid no heed; her big dark eyes were fixed upon the magician, who struggled now to raise his head a little, saw my slow approach.

He made one desperate effort, wet and winded as he was. A shaking hand was raised and pointed. His mouth moved; he stammered out a word. From his forefinger a sputtering Essence Lance leaped forth. The maiden made a gesture; the spears of lightning exploded in mid-air and shot off at random angles to strike the walls, the floor and ceiling. One gout plumed out of the nearest window and arced out into the valley to startle the peasants far below.

The maiden crossed the room; she stood above the magician and held out her hands, and the nails on her fingers, and indeed the fingers themselves, were much longer than hitherto.

The old man looked up at me. ‘Bartimaeus—’

‘That’s my name,’ I said. ‘Now, are you going to get up, or shall I come to you?’

The answer he made was incoherent. The pretty maiden shrugged. Then she bared her pretty teeth and fell upon him, and any further sounds he made were swiftly stilled.

Three small watch-imps, drawn perhaps by a disturbance on the planes, arrived just as I was finishing. Wide-eyed and wondering, they clustered together on the sill as the slender young woman got unsteadily to her feet. She was alone in the room now; her eyes glowed in the shadows as she turned to face them.

The imps sounded the alarm, but it was all too late. Even as the air above was rent with rushing wings and talons, the pretty maiden smiled and waved goodbye – to the imps, to Jerusalem, to my latest bout of slavery on Earth – and without a word was gone.

And that was the end of the old magician. We’d been together a while, but I never got to know his name. Still, I remember him with fond affection. Foolish, greedy, incompetent and dead. Now
that’s
the kind of master worth having.

⁸
I’d chosen the girl’s form again for continuity’s sake, and also because I knew it irritated my master. In my experience most magicians can be discomfited if you choose the right form. Apart from the high priests of Ishtar back in Babylon, mind you. Ishtar was goddess of love and war, so her magicians were unfazed by both pretty girls
and
gore-spattered monsters. This unfortunately eliminated most of my repertoire.

⁹
Dismal Flame
: a swift and painful expunction. In later periods, following its refinement by Zarbustibal of Yemen, it was known as the Shrivelling Fire. It was the ultimate sanction for spirits who simply refused to carry out their master’s commands, and its threat by and large ensured our (grudging) obedience.

¹⁰
Dissemblers as we sometimes are when conversing with humans, higher spirits almost always speak truth among themselves. The lower orders, sadly, are less civilized, foliots being variable, moody and prone to flights of fancy, while imps just enjoy telling absolute whoppers.

¹¹
Elemental
: most spirits incorporate within their essence two or more of the four elements (the finest djinn, naming no names, are perfectly balanced entities of fire and air). Those spirits formed of air, earth, fire or water alone, however, are elementals – a different kettle of fish altogether. They entirely lack the finesse or charm that make a select few of us so fascinating, but compensate for this with raw, bludgeoning power.

King Solomon the Great of Israel, High Magician and Protector of his People, sat forward on his throne and frowned an elegant frown. ‘Dead?’ he said, and then – more loudly, after a ferocious pause in which the heartbeats of four hundred and thirty-seven people skipped and jolted in anticipation – ‘
Dead?
’

The two afrits that sat before his chair in the form of goldmaned lions lifted their golden eyes to look at him. The three winged djinn that hung aloft behind the chair, carrying fruit and wines and sweetmeats for the refreshment of the king, trembled so hard, the plates and glasses rattled in their hands. High in the rafters the doves and swallows dropped from their roosts, and dispersed beyond the pillars to the sunlit gardens. And the four hundred and thirty-seven humans – magicians, courtiers, wives and supplicants – who were gathered in the hall that morning bent their heads and shuffled their feet and looked intently at the floor.

Rarely, even in matters of war or wives, did the great king ever raise his voice. Such occasions did not bode well.

At the foot of the steps Solomon’s vizier bowed low. ‘Dead. Yes, master. But, on a happier note, he got you a very fine antiquity.’

Still bowing, he indicated with an outstretched hand the nearest plinth beside him. On it sat a serpent statuette of twisting gold.

King 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, if some of the Sumerian tablets speak true.’

‘
Fourth level?
‘ Long fingers tapped upon the arm-rest of the throne; from the little finger came a flash of gold. ‘A
fourth-level
djinni has slain one of my magicians? With all due respect to the wailing shade of Ezekiel, this brings dishonour on Jerusalem – and, more importantly, on
me
. We cannot let such an outrage pass. An example must be made. Hiram – let the remainder of the Seventeen approach.’

In keeping with the glory of King Solomon, his chief magicians were drawn from countries far beyond the bounds of Israel. From distant Nubia and Punt, from Assyria and Babylon, these men and women of power had come. Each, at a brief command, could summon demons from the air, raise whirlwinds and rain death upon their cowering foes. They were masters of the ancient arts, and would have been considered mighty in their own lands. But all had chosen to travel to Jerusalem, to serve he who wore the Ring.

With a twirl of his staff, the vizier beckoned the circle forward; each magician, in turn, bowed low before the throne.

Solomon considered them a while, then spoke: ‘Khaba.’

Deliberate, stately, soft-footed as a cat, a man stepped from the circle. ‘Master.’

‘You have a sombre reputation.’

‘Master, I do.’

‘You treat your slaves with appropriate severity.’

‘Master, I take pride in my harshness, and I do well to do so, for demons combine ferocity with infinite cunning, and their nature is vindictive and malign.’

Solomon stroked his chin. ‘Indeed … Khaba, I believe you already have in your employment several other recalcitrant spirits that have recently proved troublesome.’

‘Master, this is true. Each loudly regrets its past audacity.’

‘Will you agree to add this wicked Bartimaeus to your roster?’

Khaba was Egyptian, a man of arresting appearance, tall, broad-shouldered and strong of limb. His skull, like all the magician-priests of Thebes, had been shaved and waxed until it shone. His nose was aquiline, his brow heavy, his lips narrow, bloodless, tight as bow-strings. His eyes hung like soft black moons in the wasteland of his face, and glistened perpetually as if they were close to tears. He nodded. ‘Master, as in all things I follow your requirements and your will.’

‘Quite so.’ Solomon took a sip of wine. ‘See that Bartimaeus is brought to heel and learns respect. Hiram will bring you the relevant cylinders and tablets when Ezekiel’s tower is cleared. That is all.’

Khaba bowed and returned to his place amongst the crowd, his shadow trailing like a cloak behind him.

‘With
that
settled,’ Solomon said, ‘we may return to other matters. Hiram?’

The vizier clicked his fingers. A small white mouse somersaulted out of the empty air and landed on his hand. It carried a papyrus scroll, which it unfurled and held ready for his inspection. Hiram studied the lists briefly. ‘We have thirty-two judicial cases, Master,’ he said, ‘that have been referred to you by your magicians. The plaintiffs await your judgement. Among the issues to be dealt with are a murder, three assaults, a marriage in difficulties and a neighbourly dispute regarding a missing goat.’

The king’s face was impassive. ‘Very well. What else?’

‘As always, many petitioners from far afield have come to ask your aid. I have chosen twenty to make formal appeals to you today.’

‘I will hear them. Is that all?’

‘No, Master. Word has come from our djinn patrols in the southern deserts. They report further attacks by brigands. Remote farmsteads have been burned and the inhabitants slaughtered, and there have been depredations on the trade routes too – caravans attacked, and travellers robbed.’

Solomon shifted in his chair. ‘Who controls the southern patrols?’

A magician spoke, a woman of Nubia, dressed in a robe of tightly wound yellow cloth. ‘I, Master.’

‘Summon more demons, Elbesh! Track down these “brigands”! Discover the truth: are they simple outlaws, or mercenaries working for foreign kings? Report to me tomorrow.’

The woman grimaced. ‘Yes, Master … only—’

The king frowned. ‘Only what?’

‘Master, saving your pardon, I already control nine strong, unruly djinn. This takes up all my energies. To summon yet more slaves will be difficult.’

‘I see.’ The king cast his eyes impatiently across the circle. ‘Then Reuben and Nisroch will assist you in this little task. Now—’

A tousle-bearded magician raised his hand. ‘Great King, forgive me! I too am presently somewhat stretched.’

The man beside him nodded. ‘And I!’

Now the vizier, Hiram, ventured to speak out. ‘Master, the deserts are vast and the resources of we, your servants, are limited. Is this not a time when you might consider aiding us? When, possibly, you might—’ He halted.