I am made of cardamon, cloves, bay and cinnamon. When you eat a dish of rice and wonder about the taste on the tip of your tongue – that is me. A queen from The South (wherever that is), I come into history once and then leave it.

From the sands, I was borne on the backs of sweating men to Solomon’s gates. His wisdom drew me. I brought ivory and gold. My people piled these at his feet. That was before I made my entrance.

I mounted the steps to his great hall. My skin was slick with oil of rose, lily and myrrh. My essence snaked the air and he could drink me before he saw me. When I walked across the polished floor his 700 wives parted before me. I wore only a fine silver chain at my waist, a ruby at my navel and a bracelet of tiny bells.

This was the Solomon, in his prime, but dumbstruck. As the son of David, he was also a musician. When we were alone he sang, deep in the bass, of his longing for me. His much-reputed wisdom deserted him in the bedchamber. All was exactly as I had arranged.

Next morning, before Solomon had woken I slipped from the silk sheets and commanded my train to take us back into the desert. Not until we had put three day’s march behind us did I signal the musicians to play in celebration of the gift I carried away with me.