The hollowness in Issa’s gut grew. He searched the faces of the other merchants. “Will no one help this man?” he asked.
None moved.
Issa tried again. “He’s traveled with us for months, carrying our bags and cleaning our camp. We cannot let him die on the side of the road like an animal.”
The merchants stared at Issa in silence, as if he were now a greater curiosity than the porter with the missing leg. Why does no one care? For a moment, Issa thought he recognized a glimpse of something in the faces of the three uninjured porters. Hope? But they remained uncomfortably silent.
Only the eyes of the boy, whose tear-streamed face contorted in agony, would meet his. Issa made his decision. Ripping off his tunic, he tore the right sleeve from the garment. He knelt next to the porter and placed a shaky hand on his clammy forehead. Issa’s touch seemed to provide strength to the boy, and a clarity appeared in his eyes that had been absent before. “Be strong. I will help you,” Issa assured him, sounding more confident than he felt.
He had no experience in medicine, but he had once watched his father dress the broken leg of a sheep that had fallen into a ravine. Stopping the bleeding was the first priority. Next, he would have to clean the wound to prevent the rot that would certainly kill the porter even if he were to survive the blood loss. With uncertain but determined hands, Issa wrapped his torn sleeve around the stump where the leg had been. Blood quickly soaked through the cloth with no sign of slowing. Technically this man’s blood was unclean, but there was no way Issa could stop the bleeding without dirtying his hands in it. Taking a breath, he grabbed the cloth and pressed it into the bleeding flesh. Everyone in the group, except Manu, Issa noticed, jumped at the shriek that came from the dying boy. Startled but undeterred, Issa kept his hold firm.
“You will live,” he reassured his patient, although again he was not as confident as he tried to sound. The bleeding slowed, but every time Issa let go, the blood started flowing again. He didn’t know how much blood a man held in his body, but too much had spilled on the ground. Then an idea came to him. He quickly removed the makeshift bandage from around the torn flesh and retied it a couple of inches above the end of the stump. After a few attempts, he perfected his tourniquet, stopping the flow of blood. The porter was now unconscious but still breathing.
Sweating from his effort, Issa gestured his blood-soaked hands at the other porters. “Bring me some wine and oil to pour on the wound.” The strength in his voice propelled one of the men to run to their supplies, returning in a minute with two flasks. Together they cleaned the wound. Issa then ripped off his other sleeve and wrapped it around the end of the stub. He admired his handiwork. The boy would live.
“Help me carry him back to the camp,” he commanded the other porters. “We must move him carefully.”
The three porters gathered around the injured boy. The one who had helped to clean the wound caught Issa’s eye and smiled shyly. When they prepared to lift their patient, a baritone voice called to them, “And what happens in the morning, when we leave camp?”
Manu towered over Issa.
Issa hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. He’d just saved this man’s life. Certainly they could find a way to transport the porter to a village where he could recover.
Manu continued, “Anyway, what use is a one-leg Shudra? How will he carry our sacks?”
Confident in his rightness, Issa stood. “How can you speak of this man as if he were no more than one of your camels? He lives now. We can save him.”
“He’s no better than a camel, if he cannot work.”
“He’s one of your countrymen, your kin.”
“Boy, you understand nothing. This servant isn’t my kin. He’s nothing but a Shudra, the lowest caste. His place in life is to serve, to carry, to clean: to do jobs that are unfit for higher castes. I’m Vaishya. It’s not a merchant’s responsibility to care for a servant. Nor is it your concern what happens to him.” Manu leaned so close to Issa that the teenager could almost taste his foul breath. “You paid us to take you to the city of the great sages. Until we get there, keep your ideas to yourself. I’ve grown tired of listening to your mouth every day.”
“But he is a human!” Issa shouted, his voice cracking.
“A man who will die here in desert.”
“He will not die. I have saved him tonight and will again tomorrow.”
“We’re two days’ walk from the next village. How will this man get there if he cannot walk? Villagers will not care for him. He has no way to pay for food or shelter if he can’t work.”
The solution came to Issa after a moment’s contemplation. Men can be so shortsighted, he thought. If only they would learn to open their minds.
“Simple,” he said. “We tie him on one of the camels and divide the camel’s load among us. The empty sacks,” he continued, pointing in the direction of the camp supplies, “we can use to spread the weight around. When we get to the village, I have a few silver pieces left I can give them to care for the man.”
Issa looked to the rest of the group for support. They in turn looked back and forth between him and Manu, as if watching a Roman athletic contest. Only from the porters did he sense encouragement. But Issa knew he would eventually talk sense into even these dim-witted merchants. His quick mind and quicker tongue may have brought him trouble among his teachers, but these gifts would serve him well in the world. He didn’t expect the burst of laughter from his adversary.
“What do you think we are, boy? Camels?” Manu said through his guffaws. “You don’t expect us to carry these supplies. Why do you think we have animals and Shudras?” The other merchants were now smiling along with him. “I think you’ve had your fun.”
A chill passed through Issa when he spotted Manu’s fingers grasping the braided leather handle of his sharp blade. Then, handing the glowing log to one of the porters, who needed two hands to hold it, Manu pushed past Issa, nearly knocking the teenager off his feet.
Regaining his composure, Issa grabbed the thick shoulder of the man, who knelt beside the unconscious porter. “What do you think you are doing?” Issa asked, trying to lower his voice.
Manu’s smile vanished. “I’m ending this game, boy, and then going to sleep.” He drew his knife and glared at Issa’s hand on his shoulder. “If you want to keep that, you move it quickly.”
Issa withdrew his hand and searched the faces around him. They couldn’t let this happen! But the other merchants only looked on with curious detachment, while the three porters gazed at the ground. Manu grabbed a fistful of the injured boy’s hair, lifting his head off the ground. The porter’s eyes fluttered open, and he gazed upward with grateful recognition at the teenager who saved his life. Issa struggled to fight back the nausea that rose to the back of his throat. He was helpless to prevent the inevitable.
In one efficient movement, Manu drew the long curved blade across the porter’s throat, just as he might kill a lamb before a feast, or a sacrifice. Issa wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t abandon the doomed boy’s gaze, which widened to surprise as his last breath gurgled through the gash across his neck.
Manu stood, towering over the teenager. Issa’s fight drained out of him, just as the life drained out of the porter. Manu said, “Starting tomorrow, you carry the Shudra’s burden until we reach village and buy another one.” He then wiped the bloody knife clean across the side of Issa’s pants before turning toward camp and settling back onto his mat to sleep.
CHAPTER