At first he thought he couldn't do it. The pain was intolerable, and to exacerbate it by forcing his body up and tense against the wooden frame was beyond human endurance. But he did it. Even called advice to the others. One died right away. Some poor skinny kid who stole one too many goats.
The blazing heat at noon made him cry out for water. Some jeering person pushed a soaked rag on a pole against his mouth. At first he thought it was urine, but it was good red wine and he sucked it down. It gave him strength for a few hours. At dusk he slumped and passed out.
When the soldiers took him down his friends claimed his body.
``Did you make it?'' they whispered.
``Did the wine help?''
``Did it work?''
When they saw that he lived they hid their smiling faces from the watching children crowding round in the dark.
``Its a miracle!''
They cleaned his wounds and fed him honey sweetened wine.
``We have to go,'' they said.
In the dark they carried him to his beloved desert under the blazing stars. The jackals called their welcome to them. When they reached the cliffs where the thinkers lived and studied they called out and three men appeared among the rocks.
``They're here!''
``Thank God!''
They took him to a clean cool cave furnished with a bed, a work table. He rested there and healed and prepared his mind for thought.
``There is much thinking to be done,'' he said.