Amazon Moon by James A. Haught Read Free Book Online

my departure, Mother and my sisters helped me pack clothing and food. Tabina looked both proud and resentful as she waved goodbye. Father and Uncle Kartos accompanied me to the edge of Aegolus, then I walked beside the chief harvester as he hauled a wagonload of beans to the city.
    For the first time in my life, I left the shelter of my boyhood home. The village became tiny behind us, then vanished. In late afternoon we approached the much-discussed city. I was awed by the great walls, tall buildings and bustle of crowds. On an overlooking knoll, but safely within the city's protective walls, stood the palace of the prince.
    I went to the governing temple, a looming edifice where many men worked. The chief scribe, a graying man with penetrating eyes and wisdom in his face, had quarters behind the temple. He examined my medallion, welcomed me, and introduced me to his two assistants.
    The high scribe had studied the latest writing methods in Athens and had imparted the knowledge to his assistants. I joined a half-dozen apprentices living in upstairs rooms. We slept on straw pallets, ate meals with temple workers, and used the public latrine on the riverbank. No woman or girl was ever seen.
    Slowly I entered the enchanted realm of written words. I memorized the rest of the alphabet and learned how the letters spell out spoken sounds. It seemed amazing that a person's speech can be put down as symbols, then read aloud again, going from sounds to images and back to sounds.
    While the high scribe was busy in temple meetings or with duties at the palace, his assistants taught us our new craft. We were instructed to make ink from lamp soot mixed with gum tree sap. And to make pens from hollow reeds, which exude the correct amount of ink when squeezed properly. And to print neat letters on sheets of papyrus woven from Egyptian reeds, then dry the wet writing in the sun.
    For the most permanent records, we were taught to make parchment from sheepskin. At the slaughterhouse, where sheared sheep were cut up for mutton, butchers saved the hides for the scribe. We peeled off the inner layer, scraped it smooth, washed it, and stretched it on a frame to dry in the sunshine. It became a sturdy writing material. Although most Greek scribes sew parchment into long strips for scrolls, our mentor had devised something better: We were taught to place several layers atop each other, lace them down the center and fold them over, making pages that can contain much writing.
    As my skills improved, the high scribe entrusted me to record minor accounts from temple officials. Eventually I was allowed to write major statements by priests and assemblymen. Thus I was privy to important happenings of the region.
    From time to time I recorded reports of Amazon attacks. Sometimes a caravan was raided in the night, its armed guards driven off and its riches stolen. Sometimes a Greek village was hit and its granary looted of food. Greek warriors were sent after the female rebels but never found them.
    Warfare and militarism reigned supreme to Greeks. Victorious warriors were public heroes. Much of my writing was patriotic declarations. I transcribed the glowing words of magistrates as they praised the valor of brave Kavopolis warriors after victories against surrounding enemies. Every assemblyman spouted tributes to the courage of "our finest young men, the glory of our homeland, the band of brothers serving their country selflessly," or similar words.
    Vaguely I had a sense of something amiss. As I wrote the patriotic praise, I envisioned the fighters splitting skulls with battleaxes and thrusting javelins through intestines. I could hear the screams and see the gushing blood and death shudders. If many of our young men were slaughtered but more of the enemy died, it was hailed as a triumph. It seemed horrible to me, yet all the city's leaders saluted the nobility of combat. It would have been unpatriotic to do otherwise. I didn't dare voice my doubts, even to