The Reluctant Scribe

Off the western coast of Sicilia lay four islands. The largest was a long, flat barrier island that ran lengthwise from north to south. Between it and Sicilia’s coast, protected from the high waves, lay the smaller islands surrounded by the still waters of a tidal lagoon and cooled by a steady breeze. One of these was Motye. Because of the island’s easy access to the bounty of Sicilia, the villagers on Motye had been supplying seafarers with necessities for longer than anyone could remember.

With the fleet moored off Motye’s southern shore, Barca became adamant, one might even say obsessed, with filling every amphora, sack, and jar with as much food as possible. Maybe Atiq would be well stocked, he said, but they were a large group, and it was possible they would have to survive for several months on the supplies they brought with them. In addition to wine, they now needed grape vines to cultivate for years to come. They needed sapling fruit and nut trees carefully wrapped and stacked for the journey. They needed grain and seeds and beans stuffed securely into tightly-lidded ceramic jars to guard against the rodents that could eat their way through a month’s worth of precious food in a matter of days. It would take a full growing season before they could harvest whatever they planted, and even then, a successful crop was not guaranteed. The gods could be fickle about that kind of thing. This stage of preparation, Barca insisted, was the moment upon which the success of their settlement would depend.

One thing Motye had in abundance was salt. They practically gave the stuff away. The locals took water from the briny lagoon and set it out in pans to dry in the sun. As the water evaporated, it left behind a layer of salt crystals in the bottom of the pan. They repeated the process day after day until heaping pans of salt lay in neat cones all along the shoreline. Barca ordered as many bags of salt as he could safely bring on board. They would need it to cure olives and flavor food, for currency, and to purify everything in the new temple from its stone floors to its sacred drinking cups. In exchange, Barca traded glass bottles, boldly painted ceramic pots, and a fair number of shekels. To account for the added weight, they removed ballast stones from the ships’ holds and left them on the shore in Motye.

Then there were the animals. The passengers called them “Barca’s”— Barca’s sheep, Barca’s geese, Barca’s rabbits, goats, ducks, chickens, and Barca’s five crowing roosters. The onward voyage would be noisy and cramped with the newly built pens, but the animals would provide food in the critical months ahead and, if allowed to breed freely, well into the future, so they were fed and watered as attentively as if they were Barca’s children.

At the end of the long day, the blessing of the gods having been invoked countless times, and the merchandise having been gathered, prepared, and delivered to the shoreline for loading in the morning, Elishat’s people were enjoying a well-earned rest. Amaal stood on the western side of the island watching the late afternoon sun paint the clouds with pink light. The swallows circled high above the lagoon, picking off insects. The Scribe came along and stood next to her, rubbing olive oil into his cramped fingers. He was just a few years older than she, but his place among the nobility of Kition had allowed him status and privilege, making him seem older. Amaal had never spoken with him before but felt she knew him because of the meetings they had attended together, he taking notes and she playing her flute.

He massaged his hands and sighed, “If the gods wanted us to go to sea, they would have given us sails for ears and oars for hands.”

Amaal chuckled at the image and said, “You don’t like sailing?”

“In a ship at sea, there’s endless space in every direction, and yet you can’t go for a walk or climb a tree. For a sailor, the ship is his house and home, but it’s not his castle. The sea reminds him that, in the endlessly flowing current of time, under a dome of innumerable stars, he carries no more weight than a tuft of eiderdown, and yet the lives of everyone on board, including that of the captain, are in his hands.”

Amaal hadn’t thought deeply about seafaring, and she wondered at the scribe’s weighty outlook. Perhaps the atmosphere on the Arbiter differed from that of the Phoenix. She was about to offer a different perspective, but he continued without skipping a beat.

“For the traveler, a ship is like a prison. His mind is restless, judging himself and all others against a better vision. His emotions smolder, threatening to burst into flame. His fellow passengers, though well away and looking elsewhere, lost in their own thoughts, are sitting too close. He spots one and examines his features. The shape of his nose is all wrong. His eyes are too close together. Why does he cross his legs at the ankles so? He finds everything about him annoying. A tension builds in his chest until, finally, he needs to walk off the feeling of disgust. But where is he to go? Once around the deck does nothing to soothe him. The relentless slapping of the sea, pish, pish, pish, against the side of the ship, is enough to drive him mad.”

Amaal waited for the Scribe to finish. It seemed to her that he was on an entirely different voyage. “Why didn’t you stay in Kition then?”

“Barca convinced me to come. He said it would be a good opportunity. Not that I’m especially keen on writing.” He kneaded the palms of his hands with his thumbs. “Trade negotiations don’t interest me.”

“But…why did you become a scribe?”

“I come from a high family. I did what I was told.”

“What did you want to do?”

Suddenly, his face relaxed and his voice filled with passion. “I wanted to make things. You know, useful things—dagger blades and arrowheads and hooks and hinges. That’s what I plan to do in the new city.”

“You want to be a metal smith?”

“Exactly!”

“But, who will be scribe?”

“Well, I—”

“Someone has to write down the story. Otherwise, no one will ever know what happened.”

“Well, you have a point, but—”

“You’re the scribe. You have the tools. You need to write it down. Like, remember how Barca kept cleaning under his fingernails when we met with the leaders in Kition?”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes! He acted all casual. It was hilarious.”

“I guess my nose was in my papyrus.”

“And the meeting between the Queen and the Priestess? That was something! Those two are as tight as twins, believe me.”

“Really! I wish I’d been there.”

“I can tell you all about it.”

And so, she did, everything from the goldfinches in the cage to the look of astonishment on Elishat’s face when the Priestess said she would join the voyage.

“You remember all that?” he said. “I never pay attention to little details. I just write down goods and prices.”

“Well, now you can go back and write down everything else that happened today.”

The scribe cracked his knuckles and sighed. “I think I’ve done enough writing for one day. How about you? What are you going to do in the new city?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can play my flute, but that doesn’t seem very useful.”

“Oh, it’s useful!”

“Amusing, maybe, but useful?”

“Sure! It raises everyone’s spirits. Brings people together.”

The Nursemaid’s advice nagged at her. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

The two remained chatting after the sky darkened and the swallows left the lagoon to roost. In the moments where they fell into silence, neither used it as an excuse to say good night. When it was finally time to go, the Scribe said, “My name is Ta’am, by the way.”

“I’m Amaal.”

Ta’am chuckled. “I know your name, Amaal. Everybody knows your name.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you’re the girl with the silver flute.”

Amaal felt the weight of the case hanging across her back. “I guess I am.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to give you these.” From his sash, Ta’am pulled a neat little bundle of fresh herbs—sage, oregano, thyme, and rosemary—tied with red twine. Amaal felt the heat of a blush come into her cheeks. She took the herbs and held them up to her nose. The swirl of aromas matched a feeling inside that she couldn’t quite describe.

“That’s sweet. Thank you.”

“Can I walk you to the shore boats?”

“Oh, no, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Okay, see you later!” But Amaal wasn’t fine. Moments after she left Ta’am and started for the boats, she would be forced to think about one thing and one thing only: survival.

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