That’s all it takes to convince me, and I lift a corner of the curtain. The first thing that hits me is how crowded it is. Shacks and sheds stand shoulder to shoulder along the street. Slaves in rags weave between free servants wearing household uniforms. The occasional carriage or palanquin lumbers down the street, parting the crowd as it passes. The crowd gives our own litter a wide berth, though I don’t know if it’s because they know what it carries, or if they simply fear the soldiers.

I watch the mix of humanity until we leave the noisy outer sectors behind. As we’re carried uphill, the sheds give way to giant stone temples and mansions, walled gardens with cypress trees arching over the stone. The palace, as we approach, is unmistakable with its gleaming white alabaster walls and gold inlaid gates. Instead of going down the main promenade though, our bearers take us along the perimeter walls until we finally pass through a side entrance.

The fragrance of flowers and fresh green leaves flows through the curtains as soon as we turn in. Compared to the busy city outside, the gardens are an oasis. Elegant women stroll the paths escorted by men in tall hats and grand court robes. Servants weave among them, bearing platters of delicacies, and the mouthwatering scent of cardamom and mint wafts over to us. Our litter bearers carry us away from the main crowd into a quiet corner of the garden, where we’re finally lowered to the ground. One of the soldiers pulls aside the curtain, and we climb eagerly out.

It’s every bit the paradise Mehtap had promised. We’re on a raised level separated from the rest of the grounds by a low hedgerow. There are polished stones under our feet, and flowering trees to provide shade. From here we also have an unhindered view of the geometric squares and rectangles that make up the gardens, as well as the dozens of small pools among the foliage. Our enclosure is still a cage, I know, but it’s a beautiful one.

A fragrant steam drifts by me, and I turn to see umbertouched servants laying out trays of flavored rice, rabbit pudding, spiced squash, and lamb skewers on a low table. Moments later, they set up reclining chairs. I lean over the food, overwhelmed by the selection laid out before me. Mehtap comes up behind me and reaches for a plate.

“Better not wait too long,” she says, “or I will eat it all.”

I consider that fair warning and dig in. The lamb bursts with fragrant juice, and the pudding is creamy and smooth on my tongue. It’s by far the most delicious food I’ve ever had, and yet I find myself thinking about my mother’s goat milk stew.