The Ring of Solomon: A Bartimaeus Novel

by Jonathan Stroud

  The shadow gave a startled cry. ‘Hey, leave me out of it! I’ve been acting under duress throughout. Except just now – when I brought back his Ring.’

  Asmira sighed. She raised her hands still higher; as yet Solomon hadn’t moved. ‘I take full responsibility, O King,’ she said, ‘and ask that my servant be absolved of blame for all the wickedness he committed.’ She scowled sidelong at the shadow. ‘There. That satisfy you?’

  ‘All right, I suppose.’

  At this King Solomon stirred. He walked towards them. The shadow grew quiet. There was an anxious chittering from the four monkeys in the corner. Even the unconscious magician lying in his bed of fruit moaned and moved his head.

  Silence in the hall.

  Asmira waited with bent head and burning hands. She was under no illusions about her likely fate, and she knew it to be well deserved. Back in the storeroom, Solomon had expressed forgiveness – but that had been when both were on the verge of death. Now, with the Ring back in his hands and his authority restored, it would be a different matter. Beyond the tower, his palace was in ruins, his people terrorized. Most of his magicians were dead. Justice demanded retribution.

  She knew all this, but it did not alarm her. She felt peaceful and calm inside.

  The rustling of a golden gown drew near. Asmira did not look up.

  ‘You have offered me the Ring and your apologies,’ the voice of Solomon said, ‘and the first of these I accept – with reluctance, for it is a fearful burden.’

  Asmira felt cool fingers brushing against hers, and the pain in her hands died away. When she raised her head, Solomon was placing the Ring upon his finger. A flicker of discomfort passed his ravaged features as he did so, then was gone.

  ‘Stand up,’ he said. Asmira stood. Beside her the shadow gave a shimmer and changed into the handsome, dark-eyed youth. She and Bartimaeus stood before the king, waiting for his word.

  ‘Your second offering,’ Solomon said, ‘I do not accept so readily. Too much damage has been caused. In a moment we shall come to my judgement. But first …’ Closing his eyes, he touched the Ring and spoke a quiet word. A blaze of light consumed him, died away; the king stood before them all transformed. His face was clear of soot, but also of its web of lines; his hair, smoothed down once more, was dark and black and glistening with vitality. He was the youthful image of the mural on the palace wall, and it was all Asmira could do not to fall on her knees again.

  ‘Oh come,’ Solomon said, ‘you know it’s an Illusion.’ Grimacing a little, he turned the Ring; at once the Presence stood amongst them. ‘Uraziel,’ he said, ‘I’m back.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’

  ‘We have a little work to do.’

  ‘Where shall we begin?’

  Solomon cast a glance at the magician on the floor. Khaba was groaning now, writhing a little to and fro. ‘You may remove this object first of all. Place him in the dungeons below the tower. I shall attend upon him presently.’

  A blaze of light: Khaba was gone.

  ‘His cringing slaves may be dismissed; I have no grudge against them.’

  More dazzlements: the four monkey demons vanished where they cowered.

  King Solomon nodded. ‘My palace, I believe, needs some repair; we must steel ourselves, Uraziel. Survey the damage, calculate the spirits that will be required and await my signal. I have business to attend to here.’

  The Presence departed, jolting the air. Asmira’s ears rang; she wiped her bloody nose upon her sleeve.

  She and Bartimaeus stood alone before the king.

  ‘Now,’ King Solomon said, ‘to my judgement. Bartimaeus of Uruk, you first of all. Your crimes are legion. You have caused the deaths of dozens of my spirits, you have spread chaos and disaster across Jerusalem. It was by your advice and through your actions that this girl was able to get access to the Ring. Not only that, you have at all times displayed extraordinary insolence towards my royal person. Your hippo guise—’

  ‘No, no, that was perfectly coincidental! It looks nothing like your wife!’

  ‘– showed appalling disregard for the sanctity of my temple. That was what I was going to say.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘As if this were not enough,’ the king went on after a thoughtful pause, ‘you appear to have encouraged this girl to throw the Ring into the sea …’

  ‘Only to keep it out of the clutches of your enemies!’ the djinni cried. ‘Far better to lose it in some watery deep than have Khaba or the Queen of Sheba enjoy its power instead of you! That was my thinking. If great Solomon can’t have it, I said to myself, why, let the silent coral guard it until the end of time, when—’

  ‘Stop babbling, Bartimaeus.’ Solomon pursed his lips. ‘In all these things, you are clearly culpable. However, you also are a slave, forced to carry out another’s will, and in truth, despite whatever temptations I may sorely have, I cannot place the blame on you.’

  The djinni exhaled with immense relief. ‘You can’t? Phew. Now that’s what I call wisdom.’ He gave Asmira a sharp nudge in the ribs. ‘So, then … over to you.’

  ‘Asmira of Sheba,’ King Solomon said. ‘In your case there is no need to recite the full list of your deeds. The harm you have caused me is very great, and to remedy that harm will weaken me still more. Not only that, you have glimpsed me in my weakness; you have seen behind the mask I wear. By all the laws of natural justice, punishment is due to you. You would agree?’

  Asmira nodded. She said nothing.

  ‘To set against this,’ the king went on, ‘there is the following. You did not kill me in my chamber. I do not know why – perhaps you already guessed your mission was ill-conceived. Then, when Khaba intervened, and the full extent of your folly was made plain to you, you struck him down and had Bartimaeus take the Ring. This act, on its own, prevented the traitor’s immediate triumph. Not only this, you subsequently defended my person during Khaba’s final attack, during which I would otherwise certainly have been slain. Now you hand me back the Ring. I find it hard to know what to say to you.’

  ‘She’s odd that way,’ Bartimaeus agreed. ‘I have the same problem.’

  ‘I have already told you, Asmira,’ the king said, pointedly ignoring the interruption, ‘that your actions have stirred me from my slumbers. I perceive now that, bowed down by the burden of the Ring, I have neglected much, and allowed the corruption of my servants to flourish. This will change henceforward! I shall seek other ways of guarding the Ring, and wear the cursed thing less, come what may. My kingdom,’ Solomon said, ‘shall be the stronger for what has occurred.’

  He crossed to a surviving table, and from a stone bottle poured two glasses of bright red wine. ‘There is one additional fact,’ he said, ‘which needs consideration. It was not your decision to attack me, and I do not believe you had any choice in the matter. You too, Asmira, were acting under the orders of another. You are much like Bartimaeus in this regard.’

  The djinni nudged Asmira again. ‘Told you,’ he said.

  ‘Consequently,’ King Solomon said, ‘the blame lies elsewhere. Uraziel.’

  The Presence hung beside him. ‘Master.’

  ‘Bring the Queen of Sheba here.’

  The figure vanished. Bartimaeus whistled. Asmira’s stomach gave a lurch, and the strange sense of calm that she had experienced throughout the judgement grew suddenly strained. Solomon selected a grape from a bowl of fruit and chewed it thoughtfully. He picked up the two glasses of wine and turned to face a blank space in the centre of a nearby rug.

  A flash of light, a smell of cream and roses: Queen Balkis stood upon the rug. She wore a long white gown with golden trim, and necklaces of gold and ivory. Her hair was piled high above a golden coronet, and earrings of twisted gold hung beside her shapely neck. Slightly detracting from her beauty and elegance was her vacant expression of numbed bewilderment, and the notably greenish quality of her skin. She swayed a little where she stood, gasping and blinking, staring all around.

&nb
sp; The Sumerian youth leaned in close to Asmira. ‘Spontaneous transfer makes you nauseous,’ Bartimaeus whispered. ‘She’s holding it in, though. No random vomiting. That’s a sure sign of good breeding.’

  ‘Welcome to Jerusalem, my lady.’ Solomon held out a casual glass. ‘Care for some wine?’

  Balkis did not answer him. Her gaze had alighted on Asmira and, after a moment’s doubt, flared with recognition. She gave a little cry.

  ‘My lady—’ Asmira began.

  ‘Wicked girl!’ The queen’s face turned suddenly white; red spots burned in her cheeks. ‘You have betrayed me!’ She took a stumbling step in Asmira’s direction. She raised a clawing hand.

  ‘Not at all,’ Solomon said, interposing himself smoothly in between them. ‘In fact, quite the reverse. This is your most faithful servant. She carried out your mission. She stole the Ring from me. She destroyed those persons who threatened you in my name. Without her, the future of Israel – and of Sheba, dear Balkis – would have been grave indeed. I am indebted to Asmira,’ Solomon said. ‘And so are you.’

  Queen Balkis said nothing. Her eyes, still trained on Asmira, were hard with doubt and cold hostility, her lips a single solid line. Asmira tried to recall the way the queen had looked when they’d spoken together two weeks before. She tried to recall the smiles and blandishments, the intimacy, her swell of pride …

  No good. The memory was fugitive, and no longer carried power.

  Balkis turned to the king. ‘So you say, my lord,’ she said at last. ‘I remain to be convinced of these facts.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Solomon gave a courteous bow. ‘It is unsurprising. We have rather sprung this on you.’ He held out the wine, and the full radiance of his smile bathed the queen; this time Balkis took the glass. ‘May I propose, then,’ he said, ‘that you accompany me for a walk about my palace, where some little work of reconstruction is going on? I can give you further details, and we can talk together about relations between our countries, which – I expect you agree – are in need of much improvement.’

  The queen’s composure had, in small measure, returned. She bowed stiffly. ‘Very well.’

  ‘In the meantime, your guard—’

  Balkis shook her head peremptorily. ‘She is no longer a guard of mine. I do not know whom she serves.’

  Just for a moment Asmira endured a keen pain, like a knife-blade in the heart. Then it faded, and with it her agitation at the queen’s arrival. To her surprise she felt quite calm again.

  She regarded the queen levelly. Balkis took a sip of wine and turned away.

  ‘In that case,’ Solomon said, smiling, ‘you will not mind, my lady, if I have a small suggestion. Asmira’ – now all the full charm and glamour of his guise was turned on her – ‘I have an offer to make you. Enter my service, come be my guard. I have seen first hand your many excellent qualities, and I now know – somewhat ironically after the events of last night – that I can trust you with my life. So, help me re-establish my rule here in Jerusalem. Be part of my more enlightened government! I will need all the help I can get in the days and weeks ahead, for my servants have been scattered, and if any of my magicians survive, they will need careful watching. Help me go forward, Asmira! Start a new life in Jerusalem! Be sure,’ he smiled, ‘that I will reward you richly.’

  At this, King Solomon put his wine glass down. ‘Now, it is high time that I attended to my most important guest. Fair Balkis, we shall take a leisurely tour, then retire to the pavilions for iced sherbet. The ice, incidentally, is brought fresh from the shoulders of Mount Lebanon; I swear you will never have tasted fresher. Please …’

  He held out his arm; the Queen of Sheba took it. Together they moved across the room, stepping delicately around the debris on the floor. They reached an arch at the far side and passed through. The rustling of their robes dwindled, the sounds of their small-talk faded. They were gone.

  Asmira and the djinni looked at one another. There was a pause.

  ‘Yep, that’s kings and queens for you,’ Bartimaeus said.

  38

  Uraziel, great Spirit of the Ring, wasn’t one to mess about when he had a palace to repair. Down below the tower, the work was underway. The buildings around the gardens that had sustained most damage in the fire-fight had been encased in teetering bamboo scaffolding, and scores of djinn were already scurrying up and down a maze of ladders, removing rubble, pulling out burned timbers and expunging any remaining taint of magic. From the direction of the quarry came sounds of frenzied hammering; afrits flew west towards the forests in search of logs. In the forecourts, lines of moulers1 stood beside cement vats, stirring industriously with their tails, while in the gardens, stretching away into the blue distance, armies of imps laboured to re-seed the blackened lawns.

  Amongst it all strode Solomon, leading the Queen of Sheba by the hand.

  From where I was, up on the balcony, even Solomon and Balkis’s monumental self-regard seemed insignificant. They were simply two tiny figures in gold and white, almost indistinguishable from the straggling pack of onlookers following at their heels.2 Balkis moved slowly, stiff-backed, the picture of brittle pride; Solomon with more of a graceful step. Now and then his arms made extravagant flourishes, no doubt as he pointed out the wonders of his gardens. On one hand there shone a little flash of gold.

  It had to be said that, given the amount of power he had at his command, Solomon was, by human standards, quite admirably restrained. Most of his actions seemed more or less designed for the common good, and he was personally magnanimous too – as Asmira and I had just found out. But, all in all, he was still a king at heart, and that meant grand and flashy. Even his casual, throwaway magnanimity to us was, in its own way, grander and flashier than all his jewels. Not that you were going to hear me complaining.

  But as for the Queen of Sheba … Well.

  High on his lofty vantage point the dark-eyed Sumerian youth made a rueful face. He hauled his ragged essence off the balustrade where he’d been leaning and went inside.

  It was time for me to go.

  I found the girl sitting on one of the golden chairs in Solomon’s apartments, eating large quantities of honey cake with all the delicacy and restraint of a famished timber-wolf.3She didn’t stop when I came in, but went on scoffing. I sat in a chair opposite and appraised her properly for the first time since my return.

  Physically she had the right number of arms and legs remaining; otherwise she was undeniably the worse for wear. Her clothes were torn and scorched, her skin bruised, her lip a little swollen; in places, her hair had been discoloured green by a blast of magic fire. None of this could exactly have been considered a plus, yet it wasn’t the whole story by any means. As she took a long slug of Solomon’s wine, then wiped her sticky hands deliberately on one of his silken cushions, a perceptive onlooker (me) could also note that she seemed a good deal more vibrant and alive than when first I’d seen her, so stiff and cold upon her camel in the gorge that day.

  Badly as Asmira’s exterior had been battered by the night’s events, I guessed that a chain inside her had also been broken – and this breakage wasn’t a bad thing.

  She took a couple of grapes and an almond bun. ‘Still down there, are they?’

  ‘Yes, busily doing the tour …’ I narrowed my handsome eyes meditatively. ‘Is it me, or is your good queen Balkis something of a sour old trout?’

  Asmira gave me a crooked grin. ‘I must say she wasn’t as … generous as I’d hoped.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Well, what can you expect?’ The girl flicked pastry off her lap. ‘She sent me out to do a nice clean assassination and steal the Ring. Now she finds me praised to the skies by Solomon, the Ring still on his finger, and herself summoned to Jerusalem like a dumb imp on a leash.’

  It was a fair analysis. ‘He’ll win her over,’ I pointed out. ‘He always does.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll forgive Solomon,’ Asmira said. ‘She won’t forgive me.’

>   She went back to her cakes. There was silence for a while.

  ‘Good job you got the offer, then,’ I said.

  She looked up, chewing. ‘What?’

  ‘Solomon’s offer. Richly rewarding you for helping him move forward with his new, progressive government, or whatever it was. All sounds a bit woolly to me. Still, I’m sure you’ll be happy.’ I stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘You seem disapproving,’ the girl said.

  I scowled. ‘Well, it’s just him using his Charm on you, isn’t it? Hooking you with that sparkly, one-on-one eye-contact stuff – all those white-toothed smiles, that business about trusting you with his life … That’s all very fine, but where will it end? First you’re a guard. Then a “special adviser”. Next thing you know you’ll be in his harem. All I can say is, if that happens, make damn sure you don’t sleep in the bunk below the wife from Moab.’

  ‘I’m not going in his harem, Bartimaeus.’

  ‘Well, you say that now, but—’

  ‘I’m not taking up his offer.’ She took another swig of wine.

  ‘What?’ Now it was my turn to look bemused. ‘You’re turning him down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’s Solomon. And … leaving aside what I just said, he is grateful.’

  ‘I know that,’ Asmira said. ‘But I’m not entering his service, even so. I’m not going to simply swap one master for another.’

  I frowned. That chain inside her had snapped, all right. ‘Are you sure about this?’ I said. ‘Yes, he’s a conceited autocrat; yes, he’s got a mania for collecting wives. But he’d still make a better boss than Balkis by a long chalk. For a start, you wouldn’t be a sl— you wouldn’t be a hereditary guard. There’d be a lot more freedom for you – and gold too, if that tickles your fancy.’

  ‘It doesn’t. I don’t want to stay in Jerusalem.’

  ‘Why not? Thanks to that Ring, it’s the centre of the world.’

  ‘But it isn’t Sheba. It isn’t my home.’ And suddenly in her eyes there was that same fire that I’d noticed the night before, burning brightly still, but with a gentler flame. All its anger, all its zealotry had gone. She smiled at me. ‘I wasn’t lying to you – what I said last night. Being a guard, doing what I did – yes, I was serving the queen, but I was serving Sheba too. I love its hills and forests; I love the desert glittering beyond the fields. My mother showed it all to me, Bartimaeus, when I was very small. And the thought of never going back to it, or to her—’ She broke off. ‘You can’t know what that feeling’s like.’