Calliope followed the servant into the courtyard where Prince Achmed waited. Gone was the unwashed captive she had rescued from the corsair galley. Instead Achmed stood in shining white silks. A vest of sky blue cotton was slashed by a brilliant crimson sash, generously embroidered with gold thread. A turban of pure white silk was bound around his head and gold and jewels seemed to drip from him. Each finger contained a different ring and a chain of gold links hung from his neck. He was immaculately clean and groomed and a jewel encrusted scimitar hung from the sash. It didn’t look to Calliope like it was anything more than an ornament.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Achmed said and held out his hand. Calliope was unsure whether she was supposed to kiss it or take it but she opted for the latter and the prince gave no objection.

“Let us to dinner,” he declared.

The dining room, like every other room Calliope had seen, was luxuriously appointed.  A long table ran most of the length of the room and the walls were covered with mosaic scenes. Calliope wasn’t familiar enough with Arad art to recognise the scenes depicted but they seemed to be of a religious nature. Numerous plants grew in shallow troughs by the walls, giving the room a greenery which was a luxury in this barren place and filling the room with the odors of their various flowers. The pollen tickled Calliope’s sinuses but she resisted the urge to sneeze. Somewhere out of sight a harp played, filling the room with gentle music. People stood as they entered and each bowed from the waist as the prince passed by. They were the great and the good of Dalib Sahara, come to eat with the Sultan.

At the end of the hall was a raised dais where the Sultan sat in resplendent glory on a throne draped with gorgeous leopard pelts behind which a hundred peacock feathers rose to form a spectacular fringe. Four guards stood sentinel like about the ruler of Dalib Sahara each holding a large round shield of polishes silver in which a palm tree was embossed in gold. Though they wore helmets, their faces were smooth and perfect. Calliope wondered whether they were real soldiers or merely ornamentation. 

To Calliope’s considerable surprise Markus sat at the Sultan’s right hand in a place of honor that normally would have been reserved for the Prince. Achmed also noticed this and tensed in anger, though nothing showed on his face or in his gait. From the look of satisfaction on the Sultan’s face she wasn’t the only one who noticed the reaction. The Sultan was clearly using Markus to deliver a none to0 subtle lesson to the prince about who ruled in Dalib Sahara.

The reached the step of the dais and Achmed prostrated himself before the throne. Calliope was fairly certain she was supposed to do something similar but, trusting to her supposed ignorance, settled for a slight curtsey instead. 

“Father, by the grace of Hayashim, praised be his name, I have returned to serve you,” Achmed said formally. The Sultan waited several long heart beats before speaking.

“Rise my Son and take the place to my left, the city rejoices in your safe return, and in the gallantry of your ‘allies’ who secured your freedom.”