the villagers.
A few days later they arrived at Hassah, on the eastern side of the as-Sudat. Hassah was an ancient settlement, but it had been rebuilt thirty years ago. The old buildings were torn down, and a new town sprouted out of their ashes. The wide streets now ran straight, either parallel to the river or at ninety-degree angles to it, and were cleaned every day. Scores of jetties had been constructed along the riverbanks. Taverns, inns, and bordellos existed in the usual high numbers, but the town didn’t have a seedy feel to it.
Jebel and Tel Hesani arrived in the afternoon. Finding a respectable inn, they ate and retired to bed. The next morning they explored. They strolled to the docks and watched cargo being loaded and offloaded from the steady flow of boats coming down the river from Abu Saga or preparing to head north. Soldiers kept a close watch on the goods. There was none of the thievery found in most ports.
The pair walked through the customs depot, where ranks of officials sat making entries in ledgers, collecting tariffs, issuing passes. Jebel shivered when he saw them at work — this was the sort of life he’d seemed destined for — and hurried on.
They browsed around one of Hassah’s many markets, to purchase warm clothes for the winter. As they wove through the neatly laid-out stalls, Jebel remembered the advice of Masters Bush and Blair — to wait until they reached Jedir to buy goods — and mentioned it to Tel Hesani.
“I see no need to postpone our purchase,” Tel Hesani replied. “We have more than enough swagah. We face a long march to Jedir, and I have heard that the nights are cold in the siq. It would be foolish not to stock up now.”
“But what if the Um Siq kill us for our new clothes?” Jebel asked.
Tel Hesani smiled. “The Um Siq are the wealthiest people in Makhras. They control all passage through the al-Attieg gorge, collecting taxes from boats sailing in both directions. They can easily afford to buy their own clothes.”
Jebel meant to ask more about the Um Siq, and also about the siq itself — he knew little about it, except that it was the only crack in the mountains of the al-Attieg through which a man could easily pass on foot. But at that moment he spotted a familiar sight in an adjoining square — an executioner’s platform. It was smaller than the one in Wadi, but somebody was on it, polishing the head of an axe.
“Come on!” Jebel barked at Tel Hesani, forgetting that he was supposed to behave as if the slave was free. “I want to see how they chop off heads here. I bet their executioner isn’t a patch on my father.”
A small crowd had gathered around the platform, but Jebel was able to push to the front. He’d assumed the man polishing the axe was an assistant, but up close he saw that it was the executioner himself. He was unlike any Jebel had heard of, a burly, unkempt man with lewd tattoos, dirty hair, and filthy hands. There was dried blood under his fingernails, and he didn’t wear any mask or cap.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Tel Hesani whispered, glancing uneasily at the other people in the crowd.
“Quiet,” Jebel hushed him, frowning at the executioner. The man looked like a sailor or farmer. An executioner should be sober and mannerly, but the brute on the platform was drinking from a mug of ale and exchanging jokes with some women.
A man in chains was led to the platform by two soldiers. The crowd muttered when they saw the prisoner, but nobody mocked or jeered him.
When the prisoner was standing on the platform, one of the soldiers addressed the crowd. “The accused, Moghar Nassara, has been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. Does anyone want to make a final plea on his behalf?” When nobody answered, the soldier nodded. “Sentence to be carried out.”
The prisoner was bent over the block, and his head was locked in place with a wooden bar. The soldiers retreated but didn’t step down off the platform. The executioner spat into his hands, grabbed his axe, and hacked at the prisoner’s neck. It was an unclean cut — he hit the man’s head, not his neck, resulting in a scream of pain. The executioner swung again, hastily, and although he hit the neck this time, there wasn’t enough power in the blow to sever it.
The prisoner shrieked and cursed the executioner, along with those in the crowd. Blood seeped from the cuts to his head and neck. The executioner paused to wipe it away so he could mark his spot, then swung for a third time. He again failed to cut through the neck and had to hack at it a fourth time, then a fifth, until it was hanging by a thin strip of flesh. At that point he put his axe aside, grabbed the head, and pulled it off. When the head came free, he dumped it in a basket, then turned and wiped his hands on a towel stained with crusted blood.
Jebel was stunned. He had never seen anything like this. His father was one of the most skilled beheaders ever. No one operated as cleanly and capably as Wadi’s master of the axe. But even judged by the standards of lesser executioners, this man had no style. He’d struck clumsily, painfully, disgracefully. He had wallowed in the victim’s blood and treated him like an animal.
While Jebel gaped, a soldier handed the executioner five silver swagah. There were low boos from some of the people in the crowd. The executioner spat in their direction, then left with the women he had been joking with earlier. The soldiers moved the prisoner’s body and head to the side of the platform, then nudged them over onto a cart. The crowd dispersed, heads low, and within a minute Jebel and Tel Hesani stood alone.
“Was the execution to your satisfaction, my lord?” Tel Hesani asked wryly.
“It was an abomination!” Jebel shouted, then lowered his voice when a woman mopping blood shot him a sharp look. “These people are monsters. That brute shouldn’t be allowed near an axe. I could have done a better job myself.”
“Perhaps,” Tel Hesani murmured. “Although they say it’s no easy thing to cut off another man’s head. Your people have perfected the art, but other executioners are not so skilled. Also, they have less chance to practice here.”
“What are you talking about?” Jebel asked.
“They have less necks to cut.” Tel Hesani took the boy’s elbow and led him away. He spoke softly as they walked, explaining the ways of Abu Nekhele law.
“Very few Um Nekhele are executed. Only serious crimes, such as murder, are punishable by death. Those who steal or maim are sent to jail.”
“What’s a jail?” Jebel asked.
“You know the cells where prisoners are held before execution? Well, in Abu Nekhele they have many of those. But people aren’t just held there prior to being executed. If they’re found guilty of a lesser crime — such as theft — they’re held for months or years, then released.”
Jebel stared at his slave in disbelief. “You mean if an Um Nekhele steals, he stays in a cell for a while, then is returned to the streets to steal again?”
“Yes, although most do not. Jail isn’t a pleasant place. Inmates are confined to tiny cells and fed disgusting food. The punishment has a grave effect on many who suffer it, and most prisoners lead honest lives when they’re released.”
“And if they don’t?” Jebel huffed. “If they come out and thieve again?”
“They’re sent back to jail. If they do it four or five times, they’ll eventually be executed, but such cases are rare.”
“That’s madness,” Jebel said. “Why waste money on scum? If a man steals, he is without honor. It’s better for his family if he’s killed.”
“Perhaps,” said Tel Hesani cautiously. “But some people believe that only their gods have the right to take a person’s life, except in extreme circumstances. And others, such as the Um Kheshabah, believe that
Jebel’s features hardened. “I knew of the cowardice of the Um Kheshabah, but I was unaware of the Um Nekhele’s weakness. Peace has softened and twisted them. First they ban slavery. Now this. Perhaps we should start a new war and beat them back into their senses.”
Tel Hesani regarded Jebel disdainfully. He wanted to ask who had made this boy such an authority on the law. He would have liked to tell Jebel that executioners were regarded with contempt here, that they were usually recruited from drunks found in the foulest taverns.
But if he did that, Jebel might start shouting, demanding justice, decrying the flaws of the Um Nekhele. If the locals found out that Tel Hesani was Jebel’s slave, they’d turn on his arrogant young master, and while the Um Kheshabah had no love for the boy, he didn’t want to see him end up as the victim of a lynch mob.
