There was a long, stunned silence. Everyone tore their eyes away from the rock and gaped at the thin, ragged figure of Jebel Rum.
Then the cheering began.
There had never been such a noise in Wadi. With one throw, Jebel had won over all doubters. It had been so long since a successful quester had returned from Tubaygat that many had begun to think that the old legends were nothing but stories told to amuse gullible children. Now they saw that the myths were history. Gods did walk among them. So they cheered not just for Jebel but for their renewed faith.
The last quartet threw their rocks, but they knew they were throwing simply to avoid elimination—no ordinary human could match Jebel’s throw.
Jebel experimented in the next two rounds. When throwing the javelin with his left hand, he put less effort into it, to see what he could do without testing his limits. He finished a safe third, and although the crowd was disappointed, most guessed that he was conserving his strength. Many rushed ahead of the contestants to the next field, to catch another glimpse of him in action.
When throwing with his right hand, Jebel put a bit more power into it, and this time he won the event, although in less spectacular fashion than the first.
The weights proved to be a letdown. One of the contestants had pulled a muscle in his back while throwing the javelin. He gave his best but couldn’t lift even the first set of weights, so the event stopped there, before the others could move on to a higher level.
The first wrestling event was next. The contestants were paired off by drawing straws. The six winners would progress, then the other six would wrestle again, with the three winners of the second heat joining the first six in the next round.
There was a great buzz when J’Al Rum was drawn against his younger brother, Jebel. As the first pair of youths faced each other, Jebel stepped over to have a word with J’Al.
“Best of luck,” he said, offering his hand.
“You too,” J’Al said, looking distracted.
“Are you all right?” Jebel asked.
J’Al shook his head and sighed. “Have you ever had one of those days where you get the feeling that nothing’s going to go your way?”
“Often,” Jebel said with a rueful smile.
“This is one of them,” J’Al said glumly. “I felt it when I threw the rock. The gods are against me today.”
In such a negative frame of mind, J’Al was defeated even before they locked grips. Jebel threw him easily, then pinned him after a brief struggle. It came as no surprise when J’Al was beaten again in the second round and made an early exit. Jebel felt sorry for his brother, but then again, J’Al had always wanted to travel, and now he would have that chance. In some ways it was for the best that he’d lost.
Next up for the remaining nine contestants was the event known as the breath of Sabbah Eid, an irony that wasn’t lost on Jebel. They had to stand in the middle of a field, wearing only a piece of cloth around their waists, while burning torches were run over their flesh. The first to scream or faint would be disqualified.
While the other young men sweated, grunted, and sizzled, Jebel relaxed. The flames didn’t mark him, regardless of the fact that the two men working on him pressed the heads of the torches in closer than usual, curious to see how much heat he could take before he blistered. They never found out. While they were trying their hardest to burn Jebel, another boy screamed, signaling the end of the event.
Immediately after that came the swimming race. All eight contestants shuffled down to the as-Sudat, where they plunged into the water and gratefully sought relief from the burns and blisters of the fire. When they were ready, they lined up, then burst into life at a signal from the high lord.
People jogged along the banks of the river, tracking the race on foot, cheering on their favorites. For most, this was now Jebel. Even those who had bet on one of the others were willing him on to victory.
It was soon clear that this wasn’t one of Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh’s best events, and as Jebel streaked to a lead and held it, most eyes focused on the Um Judayda, close to the rear of the pack. While many had wished to see him fail, so as not to pose a threat to their own warriors, now they wanted him to succeed. They were convinced that Jebel was going to win the mukhayret, but they didn’t want him to do so at a canter. With J’Al Rum fading so soon, Zarnoug was the strongest of the survivors. They wanted him to go head to head with Jebel in the later rounds, so they cheered him on and warned him when he was in danger of being overtaken. With their help he came in a safe third from last.
The ten-mile race was next, and because of the numbers involved, three would be eliminated—no more than four were allowed to compete in the penultimate round. With the exception of Jebel, the contestants were weary and strained. A ten-mile jog in the noon heat was a burden they would have happily forgone. But there was nothing for it except to grit their teeth and hope their legs didn’t fail.
Jebel could have led from the start, but he felt sympathetic towards the young men he was racing against and didn’t want to stretch them too far. So he remained with the pack, biding his time, letting J’An take the lead. This was J’An’s best event, the one he had been most looking forward to. His enthusiasm had faded with exhaustion, but once he found himself on the streets, cheered on by the crowds, he discovered fresh strength and doggedly pushed on.
One of the racers fell at the three-mile mark. The others held as a pack until, with just under two miles remaining, Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh increased the pace. J’An broke with him, and so did Jebel. The others were unable to catch them, so they hung back and prepared for the final hundred yards, when they would stage their own contest to determine which of them would qualify with the three in front.
Once Zarnoug was satisfied that they couldn’t be caught, he fell to the rear of the leaders. He wasn’t interested in winning the race but in the next two events, which would determine the overall champion. Let the Rum brothers scrap among themselves for momentary triumphs—he would conserve his power and thrust for glory when it mattered most.
Jebel could have taken the lead, but he knew how much a win would mean to J’An, so he hung back. When J’An crossed the line first, to wild roars of approval, the only person prouder than him and their father was his younger brother Jebel.
When the fourth and final contestant had been decided—a boy from a town in the green belt around Wadi—the draw was made for the second round of wrestling. Most people were hoping for a J’An-and-Jebel pairing, but they were disappointed. Zarnoug was drawn against the elder Rum, while Jebel was to face the boy from the farmlands.
Zarnoug and J’An wrestled first, the best of five throws or pins. J’An was drained after the race. He gave it his all, but nobody was surprised when he lost by three throws to one. He walked away disheartened, but the rapturous cheers of the crowd soothed his disappointment.
Jebel was up next. Some were fearful that he might slip at this late stage and be disqualified. They watched nervously as he dusted his hands and stepped into the circle. But when he caught the boy from the green belt and lobbed him five or six yards at the first attempt, they knew there would be no mistakes. Two more throws followed, then only Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh stood between Jebel and the grand prize.
But how would Jebel fare in the final event? It was a test of skill, not just strength. An executioner had to be more than tough. He needed to be able to sever a neck with an artist’s eye.
Two thick logs were produced. Both had been cut from the same tree and tested for defects. There was a thin mark on both. Each contestant had to chop his log in two, hitting the mark each time. If they both struck true, the one who cut through with the fewest blows would be the winner.
It was a nervous moment when the draw to see who would go first was made. Placing was everything. The one who went second had the advantage. If the first missed the mark when striking, it didn’t matter how many attempts the second took—as long as he was careful and hit the mark each time, he couldn’t lose
. So when Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh drew the short straw, the cheers were deafening.
Zarnoug dismissed his misfortune with a shrug and stepped forward. Taking hold of the axe, he fixed his gaze on the log, then brought his axe up, around, and down—and struck true. It was a solid strike, deep into the heart of the log. He put his foot on the log before it stopped shaking and yanked his axe out. A pause, a short breath, then he swung again.
In the crowd a young child’s toes were trampled by a large man eager to get a better view, and the injured boy shrieked aloud. The cry startled Zarnoug, and he struck a fraction wide. His axe bit deep into the log—but he had chipped outside the mark.
Zarnoug threw his axe away, disgusted, and glared at the child. The um Wadi muttered among themselves while the judges debated whether or not to eliminate Zarnoug. Before they could conclude their deliberations, Jebel stepped up, grabbed his axe, and swung it into his log, far wide of the central mark.
The crowd bellowed their approval. By fudging his strike, Jebel had negated Zarnoug’s miss, so both had to start again with fresh logs. Zarnoug nodded at Jebel to show his respect, then focused on his breathing and tuned out the sounds of any more screaming infants.
Zarnoug attacked his second log with the fierceness and sharpness of one who had tasted defeat and had no intention of sipping from that bitter well again. His first blow went almost to the middle of the log, his second took him to within a hair’s breadth of severing it completely, and his third finished the job.
The Um Judayda received a standing ovation. It was rare for an apprentice executioner to break a log with just three blows, and even though many in the crowd were against him, they appreciated the skill with which he had struck.
When the applause died away, Jebel stepped forward. Grasping the handle of the axe, he focused on the mark at the center of his log. For a moment he imagined it to be a human neck and shuddered. But then he put that image behind him and pretended it was a link in a chain of injustice. It was slavery, brutality, hatred, ignorance. It was the cry of the bigot who believed all others must think as he did or perish. It was the torment of the suffering, the spirits of the unhappy dead, the snicker of false Masters. It was all that was wrong with Makhras.
With a roar, Jebel brought his axe smashing down, thinking not of victory but only of ridding Makhras of the blight of wicked men. The head of his axe hit the mark in the center, cut down to the heart of the log, then kept on going, all the way through, to bury itself in the earth beneath.
The crowd froze. It should have been impossible to split a log with a single blow. The logs were handpicked by experts to ensure that they would require at least three strikes. This had never happened before. Nobody had ever thought that it could.
As the moment of shock passed, everyone leapt high and punched the air, even Zarnoug Al Dahbbeh. Then they rushed forward to surround, embrace, and revere the unlikely winner of the mukhayret… Jebel Rum… the thin executioner!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jebel was a hero. Everybody loved him. Storytellers began composing epic sagas about his adventures north and his triumph in the mukhayret. His teachers boasted that they had always known he was destined for greatness. Every maid in Wadi dreamt of being his wife, although only one had the real, smug anticipation of it.
But Jebel was to be a short-lived hero. Every mukhayret closed with an elaborate ceremony. There were lavish tales of the past, music and dancing, speeches galore. And at the very end, to commemorate the appointment of the new executioner—what else but an execution?
That was where it all went wrong.
Jebel didn’t know what he was going to do until he was standing in the square of execution, an axe in his hands, a hooded mask thrust down over his head by his father, staring at a woman who had been led to the platform and placed before him. Her neck looked very small on the executioner’s block.
He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He had been caught up in the rush of the mukhayret, then in the fluttering eyelashes of Debbat Alg. But now here he was, axe cold in his grip, expected to be a dispenser of justice and a severer of heads. His father and brothers stood beside him, glowing with pride.
The square was jammed with bloodthirsty um Wadi desperate to be able to say in future years that they saw the new executioner make his first kill. Some had even skipped the mukhayret to be here, taking their positions early that morning. All were chanting Jebel’s name and pounding their hands together.
Rashed Rum was trying to explain himself over the noise. He was pointing to the woman’s neck, showing Jebel the angle at which he should strike. Jebel didn’t hear more than one word in five. In the end he grabbed his father’s hands and squeezed. “But what did she do?” he cried.
“Do?” Rashed Rum frowned.
“Why is she here?” Jebel shouted. “Why are we executing her?”
“She committed a crime,” his father answered.
“What crime?”
Rashed Rum studied his son’s eyes, wide and round in the slits of the mask, and his frown deepened. “Does it matter?” he grunted. “Thief, adulteress, murderer—they’re all the same. You’re not here to judge, just to carry out the wishes of the law-abiding um Wadi.”
“But…” Jebel hesitated, trying to find the right words. As he was searching, the high lord climbed onto the platform and held up his hands for silence.
“It is time!” Wadi Alg roared. He had prepared a fuller speech, but it had been a long day and he was tired. “Wield your axe, Jebel Rum!”
There was one last roar of approval from the crowd, then an absolute hush. Wadi Alg stepped down off the platform. Rashed Rum, J’Al, and J’An retreated. And Jebel was left alone with the woman whose head he was supposed to chop off.
The woman wasn’t afraid. That was why she had been chosen. There was never a shortage of criminals to be executed in Wadi, but nobody wanted to present a new executioner with a struggler. The whole city yearned for a clean kill. This woman had been singled out, since they knew she would kneel calmly when her time came.
Jebel walked from one side of the block to the other, noting the woman’s slim arms and legs, her shaved head, the gentle arc of her neck. He wanted to look into her eyes, but they were lowered. The crowd watched Jebel, eagerly anticipating the first blow, hoping he’d cut off her head with one expert swipe.
Jebel lifted the axe. He wasn’t in the right position, but that didn’t matter. He meant to swing wide three times, then claim that nerves had got the better of him. The woman would be set free, as any criminal was if they survived three blows, and Jebel would earn a day’s grace in which to consider his options.
But before he’d brought the axe higher than his knee, he knew he couldn’t do it. This wasn’t a time to lie. There was no way he could bring himself to execute a human being, and if he pretended that there was, he would be selling himself false.
“No,” Jebel said, laying the axe aside and removing his hooded mask. “I won’t do it.” And he stood, arms crossed, awaiting the reaction.
The crowd gaped as if they were part of the same body. The silence was total. Jebel could see people struggling to make sense of his words.
Then, from near the back, came the first jeer. It was quickly taken up by others, and soon the square was alive with boos and screams. Those near the platform made claws of their hands and scraped at the air like cats.
Danafah Alg hissed to her husband. “You need to do something!”
“What?” the high lord snapped.
In answer, his wife shoved him forward to the base of the platform. He had to take a quick step up or fall flat on his face. The crowd assumed he was mounting the steps to see justice done, and their cries died away. Some applauded. Wadi Alg had no choice but to advance. Silently cursing his wife, he ascended.
Jebel waited patiently for the high lord on the platform. The woman had kept her position on the block. She wasn’t sure what was happening but thought it safer to keep her head down and not get invo
lved.
When Wadi Alg was face to face with Jebel, he cleared his throat, glanced nervously at the axe, then said, “What is the meaning of this, Jebel?”
“I know that I’m only an ignorant boy,” Jebel answered quietly, “but I’ve come to believe that murder is wrong. I won’t kill this woman.”
“But she stole!” the high lord spluttered. “She was caught and she confessed. There is no question of her guilt.”
“Then imprison her,” Jebel said. “Or make her clean streets. Or take money from her if she has any—although if she was stealing, she probably hasn’t. But don’t ask me to kill her, because I won’t.”
“But you won the mukhayret!” Wadi Alg exploded. “Why enter if you didn’t want to be the executioner?”
Jebel paused to consider the question. Why had he entered? He’d told himself that he had no choice, that he must prove himself in the mukhayret or be killed. But that argument didn’t hold up—he was invincible, so he couldn’t be punished. What was his real reason for putting himself through this and making a mockery of the age-old system?
As Jebel questioned his motives, he remembered something. Growing up as an executioner’s son, he had learned all the rules of his father’s trade. But he had forgotten this one, except in some small part of his brain, which had held it in reserve until the moment was right.
“I’ll replace her!” Jebel shouted.
Wadi Alg blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“The law of the axe,” Jebel grinned. “If an executioner won’t execute a person, he has the right to replace them on the block and be killed in their place.”
“Well… yes,” Wadi Alg said, taken aback. “But that law was put in place so that an executioner could spare a loved one, a wife or child, by sacrificing himself instead. This woman is nothing to you, is she?”
“I’ve never seen her before,” Jebel laughed. “But I’m replacing her anyway. It’s my right and I demand it.”
The high lord stared dumbly at the boy. Then his face hardened. “So be it. Woman, leave this place—you’re free.” She didn’t need to be told twice, and scurried off the platform. Wadi Alg sneered at Jebel. “Assume the position, fool.”