It was hot, even that early, and I started talking to the next man in line, just as we have now, though he wasn't the kind I'd normally spend any time with - the queue makes people want to talk. He was obviously city-bred, pale and without the veil we wear, and his eyes moved all the time, whenever I caught them with mine they slid away again.
He was doing the same as you and I - watching the statues while we talked. It's hard not to look at them, Odenathus with the Sword of Vengeance ready to fall, and Zenobia with the Staff of Mercy blocking that blade. The platform wasn't stained and slippery then, I think the priests only get it completely clean overnight. Look, you can see now how they've just mopped it after the last kill.
My story wasn't much to tell, it was the sort of fight that happens in barracks every feast day, no-one was meant to die. My squad's always brawling with the City Guard, it was just bad luck how their man fell and cracked his head. But it was me who knocked him down, and something had to be done to put it right.
Not for the officers, you understand, my captain just questioned men on both sides and said it would go no further, but I wouldn't have felt right letting it go as easily as that. So I came to the temple first thing and joined the queue.
When I told him I was there alone he gave an annoying half smile, as though I must be mad to go for justice with no-one watching. He pointed out two women in the gallery for him, and I wondered why he was there at all. His sort usually choose a court of law, not the temple where honour needs no witness.
His wife was the younger sister, pretty even in the puffiness of long weeping, but weak and toylike - one day on the sand would finish her. Her sister was watching the queue with a calm intelligence, city-bred but clearly stronger in mind and body than the other two. I thought he'd married the wrong sister, but remained polite and complimented him on his wife's beauty.
His story began, like mine, with too much wine and not enough sense. In a tavern, surrounded by other louts, he had started boasting of his secret love. At first he was firm in hiding her name, but as he sank deeper into the cups he gave out more clues, and finally revealed her as his wife's sister.
I looked up sharply at this, with more respect for his taste but shocked that he would come for justice knowing his own guilt - he didn't seem one to go willingly to death. But if the boasting was not true, why had he come here at all?
He went on, describing his return home. He didn't know how the news had arrived ahead of him, but I've seen such tales move faster than a running man, and he was barely able to stagger. His wife was waiting not with a knife but with a broken heart, and in that he may have chosen well - betraying the sister would have been far more dangerous.
They had talked long into the night, and as he sobered he persuaded her it was just idle boasting. He swore he was nothing but a brother to her sister and she almost believed him - but still asked for the justice queue to be sure.
As he told of this and we moved slowly forward, my eyes were drawn more and more away from the great statues and onto his face. It wasn't right.
The slight smile was back, as he spoke of denying his boasts and when his gaze strayed to his sister-in-law in the gallery. And when he told of his oath of innocence to his wife, he winked at me! I almost veiled at this, shocked at the ugliness of being drawn into conspiracy, still not sure which of his claims were true and which lies. So I looked back at Odenathus and Zenobia, their gilded armour bright in the morning sun, and we were silent for a while as the queue crept on.
He spoke again when we were close to the statues, and could well see the rods and twisted ropes connecting their moving parts to the platform. He must have studied such things before because he could see how all the pieces came together. He talked of the fine balance of the Sword and of the Staff, separately and together, and how both were connected to the platform by delicate mechanisms.
He winced a little as a merchant ahead of us threw himself onto the platform and the weapons shook in their mountings, but did not fall. He said the trader was a fool to land so heavily, and that a careful man could roll lightly onto the platform with no danger of dislodging the weapons at all.
I looked at him in amazement and disgust - to reduce the court of honour to a trial of dexterity, it was too horrible to bear. And then for a moment I saw the statues, and more, through his eyes.
The statues were simple machines, not animated by justice but by levers, and then this bleak vision exploded to include everything. The world was just objects, empty of magic, faith and glory: people were just dumb beasts, motivated to eat, and breed, and survive, and no more.
I fought down the nightmare and quickly drew my veil. He looked surprised more than offended at such an insult, and turned away. We did not speak again.
Almost at once we were at the front of the queue, and he moved forward to the statues. He wasn't looking at their faces but at the platform, and with a single graceful movement he carefully took his place on it. The Sword hardly moved, in a moment it was still and he slid as carefully off again.
Rage came up like a battle berserk: I wanted to cut him down on the spot, but we were in the temple and it was now my turn, so I had to let him go. Instead I ran forward and leapt high in the air, crashing down on the platform so that it, and the statues, rocked violently back and forth. The connecting rods creaked loudly and sunlight flashed on metal armour and weapons.
I looked up at the Sword of Vengeance swaying over my head, and thought I was a fool to land so hard. And that was when I truly hated him, when he'd made me betray my faith with doubt in the instant of my death.
But Zenobia's Staff of Mercy held fast, and though I waited for all the rocking movement to end, the Sword never fell. I got up and walked out of the temple, feeling no relief at being alive, just fury and loathing.
He was in the road outside, joined now by the two women, but watching alertly as he saw me approach. I didn't stop to threaten, just struck his unveiled face. It was a soldier's gesture of contempt, but it put him on the ground, and when he scrambled to his feet he had drawn his sword.
I remember little of what happened next. The city man was no match for one of the desert such as us, and with the battle rage in me I only stopped when someone seized my sword arm. It was the sister, saying
"Leave off your butchery, can you not see he's dead?"
I searched her face: no tears or guilt. And in a low voice she said
"It's time someone stopped his lying mouth, now she's free to find a better."
I looked around for his wife. She was kneeling, hooded and veiled, howling and shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly very calm, I walked away.
I walked all day, thinking about justice. Did I kill a wretch who's only crime was idle boasting, who was already judged innocent by Odenathus and Zenobia? Or did he cheat the Sword of Vengeance so that justice used me as its instrument instead?
I walked until I came back to the temple, and joined the queue again.
Now it's my turn and I see Odenathus waiting for me. I'm sorry I've not had time to hear your story, perhaps later.