The grand audience hall of the Palace of Babylon shimmered beneath the early morning light that poured through high clerestory windows, shafts of gold dust dancing in the warm air. Massive columns of glazed brick—painted in brilliant lapis blue, crimson, and gold—rose like ancient cedars on either side, their capitals carved into flowering palms and striding lions. Between them, delicate lattices of cedar wood filtered the sun into soft patterns across the polished stone floor. A gentle ripple of water echoed from the narrow channels that bordered the hall, carrying the sweet scent of lotus and myrrh from the gardens beyond.

At the far end, upon a dais of seven steps faced with green jasper, stood the cedar-wood throne inlaid with ivory, electrum, and mother-of-pearl. User sat there in quiet majesty, clad in a robe of finest white linen edged with deep purple embroidery that clung lightly to his broad shoulders and tapered torso, a heavy necklace of gold and carnelian resting against his chest. The golden diadem of kingship glinted upon his hair.

Below the dais stretched the wide rectangular pit-stage, its floor covered today with rich carpets of woven wool brought by the waiting caravan. Merchants in colorful robes—some striped in saffron and indigo from distant India, others in flowing scarlet from Phoenicia—moved with practiced grace, directing servants as they unpacked cedar chests bound in bronze. The morning air grew thick and heady: frankincense smoke curled from small braziers, mingling with the sharp bite of cassia, the earthy sweetness of myrrh, and the bright tang of citrus oils from far-off groves.

Crates were pried open with soft clacks, revealing treasures that sparkled even in the shaded hall: bolts of translucent silk that caught the light like captured moonlight; delicate glass vessels from Egypt in swirling blues and greens; ostrich feathers dyed crimson; ivory combs carved into leaping ibex; jars of black peppercorns that perfumed the air with their fierce warmth; and small caskets of lapis lazuli that glowed like pieces of the evening sky.

Along the raised galleries that ringed the hall, palace residents gathered in loose clusters—wives in flowing garments of gossamer linen adorned with golden armbands, their hair bound with jeweled nets; concubines in brighter, daring silks that left shoulders and midriffs bare, golden anklets chiming softly as they leaned forward to watch; scribes and courtiers in starched kilts whispering behind painted fans. Their eyes gleamed with curiosity, some already calculating which gifts might please the king, which dancers might sway hips to irresistible rhythms, which veiled beauties might be offered next.

A low murmur of anticipation rippled through the hall as the caravan master—a thick-set man with a proud aquiline nose, heavy-lidded amber eyes, and a beard oiled into tight curls—stepped forward and bowed low, his scarlet robe pooling like fresh blood upon the carpet.