"It is he, my husband. It is the centurion who raped and killed Iris."

Zabaai, looking into the knowing eyes of the Gaul, understood for a brief minute the terror and the shame that his sweet favorite wife must have felt in her last minutes. A fierce rage welled up within his breast, and with a wild cry of fury he pulled the centurion from his mount. In an instant his knife was at the man's neck, edging a thin red line across his throat. Only Tamar's insistent voice was able to stop her attacker's immediate execution.

"No, my husband! He must suffer as our Iris suffered! Do not, I beg you, grant him the blessing of a quick death! He does not deserve it."

Through the red mists of his anger Zabaai felt a hand on his hand, heard the plea of his wife, and lowered his weapon. His black eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and he turned away to hide them, using his sleeve to wipe the evidence of this weakness away so others might not see it. "Is that all of them, Tamar?" he asked her gruffly.

"Yes, my lord," she answered him softly, wanting to take him into her arms and comfort him. If it had been a terrible ordeal for her, so had it been for him. He had lost the thing dearest to him in the entire world. He had lost sweet Iris, and Tamar knew that he would never again be the same. That, more than anything else, saddened her, for she loved him.

She slipped her hand into his and together they walked to the foot of the dais, where Zabaai said quietly, "My wife says that these are all of the guilty ones, Antonius Porcius."

The Roman governor rose from his carved chair and came forward to the edge of the platform. His voice rang out over the crowd. "These men stand accused by their victim, whom they left for dead. Can one of them deny his part?" The governor looked at the guilty eight, who hung their heads, unable to face either Tamar or the others.

Antonius Porcius spoke again. "My judgment is final. These beasts will be crucified. Their centurion is now to be given to the Bedawi for torture and execution. The Roman Peace has prevailed."

A dutiful round of cheers rose from the ranks, a greater cheer from the Palmyrans. Then several legionnaires of the sixth legion dragged forward the wooden crosses that had been brought to the site in anticipation of the punishment to be meted out. The guilty men were divested of their uniforms and stripped naked. They were then bound upon their crosses, which were lifted high and held by one group of soldiers as others pounded them into the sandy ground from atop ladders that had been raised to aid them.

The heat of the late afternoon was barely tolerable, but if the Gauls survived to noon the following day their agony would be exquisite, for spending a morning in the broiling sun of the Syrian desert would swell their tongues black. The wet rawhide strips binding their arms and their legs to the wooden crosses would dry, shrink, and then cut into their flesh, stopping the circulation of blood and bringing incredible pain as, unable to help themselves, the men would sag with their own great weight. Depending upon how physically fit they were, they would begin dying, and they would die by inches.

The cries of their centurion, Vinctus Sextus, would follow them into Hell, as he would be kept carefully alive until all of his men were gone. Before their frightened eyes he was even now being stripped preparatory to his torture.

It began simply enough. A stake was driven into the ground, and he was bound to it, his face against the wood, his back to the crowd. Zabaai ben Selim, a slender whip of horsehair in his hand, administered the first five blows. They were not heavy blows, but rather sharp, cutting lashes that gave exquisite pain. Tamar, weakened though she still was, was able to give the prisoner five blows. Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim struck the Roman once. The last five blows were delivered by Zenobia, who wielded the whip surprisingly well for a child, it was thought by the crowd. In all, fifty-five stripes crossed Vinctus Sextus's back, but the Gaul was a tough one, and not once did he cry out, although he remained conscious the entire time.

Zabaai ben Selim smiled grimly. There would be plenty of time for cries, and the Gaul would eventually beg for mercy just as Zabaai's sweet Iris had been forced to beg. It would be many, many hours before Vinctus Sextus expired, and he would wish for death a thousand times before death finally came.

The beating over, the centurion was cut down and dragged across the hot sand to where a block had been set up. Beside the block of marble an open pot bubbled over a neat, leaping fire. Forced to kneel, Vinctus Sextus watched with the first dawning of horror as his hands were swiftly severed from his body before his cry of protest had faded away in the hot afternoon. "Not my hands!" he shrieked. "I am a soldier! I need my hands!" The wolfish faces of his captors grinned mockingly at him, and he realized that even if they should let him live he would be too maimed ever to do battle again.

He watched fascinated as the blood from his severed arteries arced red into the golden sand; but then he was dragged across the small distance to the boiling pot, and his severed stumps were plunged into the bubbling pitch to prevent his death from blood loss. His first real scream of agony tore through the spectators, who sighed with one breath, relieved that the centurion was finally feeling the pain he deserved.

A son of Zabaai gathered up from the sand the two hands, their fingers outstretched in protest, and the chief of the Bedawi smiled once again. "Never will those hands again be able to give pain, Gaul," he said. "We will take them into the desert where we will feed them to the jackals."

Vinctus Sextus shuddered. The greatest fear of the men of his northern tribe was to be buried maimed. Without his hands he would be forced to wander in a netherworld that was neither earth nor the paradise of his own woodland gods. He was already condemned by the loss of his hands, yet he still fought on.

He was dragged back across the sand and staked flat upon his back, spread-eagle wide. Two women from the Street of the Prostitutes pushed through the crowd and presented themselves to Zabaai. One of them spoke. "We will help you, chief to the Bedawi, and we will ask nothing in return. Since coming to Palmyra, this man has injured several of our sisterhood, and until now we have had no recourse to justice."

The woman was a tall brunette of mature years, and quite skillfully painted. The beautiful young girl who had come forth with her was no more than fourteen, a blue-eyed golden blonde from northern Greece. With no pretense of modesty the girl stripped off her pale-pink silk robe, and stood naked before the crowd. Her youthful body was pure perfection with marvelous globe-shaped white breasts, a slender waist, and generously shaped hips and thighs. A sigh rippled through the crowd.

With deliberate slowness the girl moved to stand behind Vinctus Sextus's head. Gracefully she knelt and bent to brush his face first with one of her full breasts, then with the other. The man groaned with pure frustration as Zabaai's deep voice taunted him, "What magnificent fruits, eh Gaul?"

Vinctus Sextus felt his fingers ache and twitch to grasp the tempting flesh rubbing against his face. Instinctively he struggled to move his bound arms. Too late he remembered that he no longer had any hands, and a curse rose to his lips.

Zabaai ben Selim's youngest son, the six-year-old Hassan, had possession of the Gaul's severed hands, and he danced mischievously about the bound man waving his trophies. Taking the hands, he placed them on the prostitute's plump breasts, rubbing them lewdly while the crowd roared with laughter at the boy's impishness. The centurion reverted to his native tongue, screaming, and it was obvious that he cursed the crowd, his fate, and anything else that came into his mind.

"He should be in appalling pain," Antonius Porcius said to Prince Odenathus. "Why is he not?"

"The boiling pitch is mixed with a painkilling narcotic," the prince replied. "They did not wish him to die of the pain, and so they have eased it considerably."

The governor nodded. "They are skillful torturers, the Bedawi. Should I ever need such men, I shall call upon them."

The crowd ohed and ahed at each subtle torture. Fathers held their children on their shoulders for a better look. The two Roman legions and their auxiliaries stood silent, and at attention, but there were many white faces among them, especially those nearest the unfortunate Gaul. Antonius Porcius had already vomited discreetly into a silver basin held by his personal body servant.

As a final torture, Vinctus Sextus was tenderly bathed in warmed water that had been sweetened with honey and orange. Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim emptied a small dish of black ants upon his helpless form. It was too much for even the hardened Gaul. He began to scream frantically, begging for mercy, begging that they kill him now. His big body writhed desperately in an effort to remove the tiny insects feeding upon his sweet-drenched body. Soon his screams grew weaker.

Realizing that the show was now over, the citizens of Palmyra stayed just long enough to see the Roman soldiers break the legs of the eight men who had been crucified, then began straggling back into the city proper, followed by the marching legions. The men of the sixth, and the ninth would consume a great deal of wine in the next several hours in a concerted effort to forget this afternoon.

His legs somewhat shaky, the Roman governor made his way from the dais and walked over to where Zabaai ben Selim stood with his sons and the girl child Zenobia.

"Are you satisfied with Roman justice, Chief of the Bedawi?" he demanded.

"I am satisfied. It will not return my sweet Iris to me, but at least she will be avenged with the deaths of these men."

"Will you now leave on your winter trek?"

"We will stay here until the criminals are finally dead," came the quiet reply. "Only then will justice be done. Their bodies will then accompany us into the desert to become carrion for the jackals and the vultures."

"So be it," said Antonius Porcius, relieved to have the whole messy affair over with. Well, he thought to himself, one good thing came from this. That young blond prostitute was the loveliest creature he had seen in months. He intended buying her from her owners, for he was tired of his current mistress, the wife of a rich Palmyran merchant. Impatiently he signaled to his litter bearers.

'The gods go with you this winter, Zabaai ben Selim. We shall be happy to see you back in Palmyra come the spring." The Roman governor then climbed into the litter and commanded his bearers to hurry back into the city.

Prince Odenathus watched him go, and then he smiled a mischievous smile. "He is as transparent as a crystal vase, our Roman friend," he said to Zabaai ben Selim. "His desire for the blond whore was quite apparent, but he shall not have her. Such a brave girl deserves better than our fat Roman governor."

"She is, I take it, already on her way to the palace," was Zabaai ben Selim's amused reply.

"Of course, my cousin! The couch of a Bedawi prince is far preferable to that of a mere Roman."

Zabaai ben Selim could not help but smile at his younger cousin. The Prince of Palmyra was a charming young man with not only an intelligent mind, but a keen sense of humor. But like many others in Palmyra, Zabaai still worried that Odenathus was not yet married, and had no heir, for Palmyran law dictated that no illegitimate child might inherit the throne. He looked closely at Odenathus, and asked, "When are you going to wed, my Prince?"

"You sound like my council. It is a question they ask daily." He signed. "Life's garden is filled with many beautiful flowers, my cousin. I have yet, however, to find one sweet bud that attracts me enough to make my princess. Perhaps," he chuckled, "I shall wait for your little Zenobia to grow up, Zabaai."

It had been said in jest, but no sooner were the words out of Prince Odenathus's mouth than Zabaai ben Selim realized that it was the very solution to his problem of a husband for his daughter. It was something that both he and Iris had worried about, for none of the young men of his tribe would have been suitable for their daughter. There was simply no getting around the fact that Zenobia was different from other girls. Not only was she far more beautiful than the ordinary Bedawi girl, but she was highly educated, fearless, and quite outgoing.

She could ride and race both camel and horse as well as any man. Because she had begged him to do so, he had let her take aims training with her younger brothers, and he was forced to admit that she was the best pupil he had taught in years, even better than her eldest brother, Akbar. She had a natural grace, and a flair with weapons that was surprising for someone so young. Strangely, no one gave a second thought to the unconventional things she did, for she was Zenobia, and unlike any girl his tribe had ever produced. He was proud of his daughter.