Of late, Jebel was only occasionally called upon to place his head on the block. That wasn’t because crime had dropped in Wadi. On the contrary, it had increased sharply. The trouble with setting every criminal free was that many broke the law again. Wadi had become a cesspit, a beacon to all the scum of Abu Aineh, who flocked to the city, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t be punished for their crimes.
But when Wadi Alg was killed by an assassin who laughed as he walked free, his replacement was determined not to suffer the same fate. He made a pilgrimage to Jebel’s house and begged the executioner to reconsider. The city had become a foul stain upon the landscape. Didn’t Jebel care? Wasn’t he concerned?
Jebel said that of course he was alarmed, but still he wouldn’t kill. When the high lord lost his patience and asked how Jebel suggested they put a stop to the madness, Jebel told him of the penal customs of other nations, how they built jails to lock up criminals. The high lord protested, but when he considered his options afterwards, he saw that it was the only way forward.
Nobody thought that the prisons would work, but they did. If they were sturdily built and properly manned, escape was almost impossible, and if you sent someone there for the rest of their life, that person ceased to be a problem. At first the judges of Wadi issued life sentences to every criminal, but it quickly became clear that they couldn’t afford to house and feed so many convicts, so they began to introduce shorter sentences for lesser crimes. Some suggested floggings or amputations, but those were the remit of the executioner, and Jebel refused all such requests.
Gradually the prison system flourished in Wadi, and it was even taken up by other towns in Abu Aineh — by fining the wealthier criminals and charging rent for their enforced stay, a prison could turn a profit, and no Um Aineh had ever said no to that. The streets began to feel safe again, and life went on as before, only without the executions.
Jebel put his axe away at the end of another bloodless day and made for home. He walked slowly, thinking deeply. Even after all these years he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. He never assumed that he knew better than the high lord or judges of Wadi. In fact, he was certain that he didn’t. He thought that he would suffer for his arrogance when he died, that the gods would inflict an eternity of pain upon him, to teach him a lesson. With all his being, he wanted nothing more than to be a normal, law-abiding citizen of the city he loved.
But as Tel Hesani had once told him, a man must listen to his heart. To Jebel, murder was an injustice, no matter who sanctioned it or why. He had condemned a pair of nasty fraudsters to death once, atop the caves of Hamata, and he still felt shame whenever he thought of the way he had passed sentence on them. Fate had put him in a position where he could spare some lives, and if he walked away from that, he could not live with himself.
When people asked Jebel why he refused to kill — as they often did — he never said that all slaves should be set free or that the laws were unjust. He did not see himself as a reformer — he thought that he had neither the wisdom nor the right to preach. He would simply tell them a little about his hard journey to Tubaygat and the suffering he had endured along the way.
“As one who has endured some of the grave pains of this world,” he would add softly, “I feel a bond with all who suffer. It’s probably madness, but I can’t help myself. That’s just the way I feel.”
Jebel strolled by the banks of the as-Surout on his way home, where he lived near the walls of Fruth. He hadn’t chosen to live close to the slave quarters to make a statement. He simply wasn’t welcome in other parts of the city and hadn’t been able to buy a house anywhere except here. Not that he minded. He often entered Fruth to talk with and learn from those who came from the lands beyond Abu Aineh.
He thought of Rakhebt Wadak as he strolled by the river, and wondered when his old friend would come calling for him. He was as strong and healthy as he had been since returning from Tubaygat, and he guessed that he might live for many decades yet. The clay-faced god would need to be patient when it came to catching up with Jebel Rum.
Thinking of death put him in mind of his father, and that made Jebel sigh. One of his biggest regrets was that he had never been able to make peace with Rashed Rum. The old executioner died a few years after Jebel replaced him (some said of shame) without ever having come to see his youngest son. He had wanted nothing to do with Jebel after the mukhayret.
J’Al and J’An joined the army and served in overseas regiments, not wishing to live near their despised brother. J’An died in a battle far from home. For many years Jebel heard nothing of J’Al, until he turned up several months ago, scarred and crippled but at one with the world. He was tired of war, death, and suffering and wanted to be friends with Jebel again. That had been one of Jebel’s happiest days ever, and the brothers were now inseparable.
Jebel turned away from the river, caught sight of his house, and smiled. This was always the best part of any day, when he could put all of his cares and doubts behind him and return home to the woman he loved and the children he adored. They had eight of them now, ranging in age from seventeen to three, an even mix of boys and girls. Three were named after people he had met on his quest — Hubaira, Samerat, Ramman. Four had been named by his wife — Madhbah, Temenos, Farasa, Deir.
The firstborn, of course, had been called Tel Hesani Rum.
The younger children were present when Jebel arrived, and they shrieked with glee when they saw him, rushing over to embrace him and rummage through his pockets in case he had any sweets. He dealt with them one by one, asked about their day, then dismissed them with a pat on the back or a kiss. When the last had been seen to, he turned to his wife, waiting for him as she always was, arms crossed, smiling that small, delightful smile of hers. He had thought her the most beautiful girl in Wadi after the mukhayret, and all these years later he still did.
“Welcome home, husband,” she said formally.
“Thank you, wife,” Jebel replied stiffly.
Then she shook her right hand, and he heard the jingle of three silver coins clasped within it. As they laughed, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. “I love you, Jebel,” she whispered, hugging him tight, as she did most evenings.
“Of course you do,” Jebel smirked, kissing her nose and gently tweaking her ears. “And I love you….” He kissed her again and murmured softly, “Bas.”
THE END
February 2002–November 2009
