Legends of Garaaga

by Paul E. Cooley

  If not for the fact he was an accomplished translator of Aramaic and Herratic, Akakios would have dismissed him from the Library years ago.

  Another set of scratches on the papyrus, and the tablet was finished. Herodot leaned back and surveyed the words on the scroll. He was certain of his translation's accuracy, and that fact depressed him. Were the rest of Tupšarru's writings going to be so terse and lifeless? The joy of translating them, of immersing himself in the rich descriptions of Akkadian daily life, was the reason he worked so late into the night and looked forward to every morning. Without Tupšarru...

  Herodot raised his head. Akakios was engaged in a conversation with two Roman soldiers and an Egyptian. He placed the stylus in the holder and stared at it.

  "Ink is as blood," Clietus had said during the morning lecture. "Blood powers the body. Without it, we die. History is kept alive by those who write it down. All we know about the world's beginning was written down from oral telling and retelling of legends."

  The head librarian had paused and then stared at Herodot.

  "Where did the story of your Yahweh come from?"

  Herodot cleared his throat and felt a flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. "From Abraham. From Yahweh Himself."

  The hall chuckled.

  Cleitus smiled. "That is a Jew's answer. What is a scholar's answer?"

  "That Abraham passed down the stories. That at some point they were written down by scribes."

  "Scribes like yourself."

  Herodot nodded.

  Cleitus surveyed the room, his bright, dangerous eyes daring anyone utter a breath. "History, my brethren, is only as accurate or as pertinent as those who tell it, make it. Memory is fickle. Gods fade with time. They die from history when their supplicants do not keep them alive through song, story, and writing.

  "We are witnesses to a great battle. The remnants of Alexander's legacy and that of Rome's rise. But if we do not record it, who will be left to tell the tale?"

  "Caesar and Ptolemy," a voice ventured.

  Cleitus turned and faced the west seats. "Yes, Hiram. Caesar and Ptolemy. And if only the victor is left to speak, then how will the war be remembered?"

  Herodot nodded in spite of himself. No one in the hall dared answer one of Cleitus' rhetorical questions unless they desired a vitriolic rebuke.

  The old librarian stared down at the floor. "You scribes, you perform the function of the gods themselves. You make history. Which is why you must be so accurate, so painstakingly methodical in your trade."

  He looked up. "Have any of you read the story of Nerutal of Babylon?"

  The hall was silent.

  Cleitus' smile grew. "I thought not. Those of you working through Akkadian and Babylonian history should read it. It is an interesting tale, to be sure. Philus, a high-ranking soldier in Alexander's army, wrote the account after interviewing his friend Nerutal. Philus does not vouch for the veracity of the man's story, but felt it worthy enough to keep alive through history.

  "If more people like Philus existed during Babylon's pinnacle, we might know all there is to know about the civilization."

  Herodot cleared his throat. Cleitus' eyes snapped to him. "But we know much, sir. Very much."

  Cleitus' smile remained, but his narrowed eyes showed anger. "What do we know, scribe? What do we know of their wars? The dredging of the great river?"

  "Excuse me, sir, the tablets I've been translating closely chronicle the Akkadian civilization. At least a period of it."

  The old Greek frowned. "See me after the lecture, Herodot." Cleitus coughed and then stamped his foot. "Now, colleagues, let's discuss Alexander and the Indus Valley."

  "Herodot?" Akakios's voice yelled.

  The young scribe looked up. "Sir?"

  "Are you done with that tablet? Or are you planning on marrying it?"

  The hall snickered.

  "Sorry, sir. Yes, sir."

  Face flushed, he blew on the scroll to ensure the ink had dried, rolled and tied it. With a sigh, he walked to the front and handed the scroll to the librarian.

  Akakios grunted. "You want more, boy?"

  "Aye, sir."

  A gruff smile broke out across the old man's face. "Then get to it, son."

  Herodot nodded his head and made his way to the great hallway.

  With fresh torches lighting the storage area, Herodot still felt a wave of claustrophobia, but the great fear he had experienced the night before was mercifully absent.

  A single Roman soldier stood guard outside the room's only entryway. The legionnaire smirked and gestured toward the room. Not much of an invitation, but Herodot was used to it.

  Most of the Roman soldiers saw little value in the Library. The works. The scribes. The continual study of history, the lectures and discussions of the sciences, made little sense to them. Theirs had become a culture of war and conquest.

  Except for luminaries like Cicero, Rome had few "enlightened" men remaining. They left that to the Greeks and the Jews. Caesar certainly paid lip service to scholarly endeavors, but Herodot doubted the ruler had much true interest.

  He stepped into the room and immediately made his way toward the wall of tablets. He knelt and placed Tupšarru's last day of the year into its proper slot. "How many do I want this time?" he asked himself. With a sigh, he pulled the next three and began walking from the hall. The three tablets were heavy, thicker than the last set.

  His eyes swung toward the grate in the floor and he frowned. It was askew as if someone had pushed up from beneath it. The metal was scarred in places. "Soldier?" he called.

  The soldier walked into the room, a scowl on his face. "Yes, Scribe?"

  Herodot nodded to the grate. "Do you see it? How it's off center?"

  The guard grunted. "Must have shifted somehow."

  "I don't think so. I think--"

  "I'll take care of it," the man growled.

  Herodot bowed to the man and headed out of the room. "Romans," he whispered.

  He returned to the scribe hall, made his way down the aisle, and to his station. Herodot placed the tablets on his desk and frowned at them. These were larger, much larger than any of the previous Tupšarru tablets. He felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. Had he finally run out of the ancient scribe's works and started on someone else's?

  Herodot pulled a sheaf of papyrus from beneath the table. He noticed Isaac's raised eyebrows and shrugged. "Don't know," he whispered.

  Isaac shook his head and went back to his translation.

  The young Jew swiveled the first tablet toward himself and read the first few marks. Same hand. Same scribe. "Tupšarru."

  "Good," Isaac said without looking up. "Get to it, Herodot."

  He'd barely heard Isaac. The first sentence alone was enough to make his breath stop in his throat.

  "My name is Trianni," Herodot muttered. With trembling fingers, he began to scratch upon the scroll.

  Isaac popped a fig into his mouth, gnashed his teeth on the soft fruit and moaned in pleasure. "You should try the figs. Good quality today."

  With a shrug, Herodot retrieved one of the fruits from a clay plate. He bit the end off and smiled. "Good," he whispered and consumed the rest of it.

  Midday meal was held in the main assembly hall. The sound of conversation ebbed and flowed like the tides as discussions led to heated points and then subsided into quiet contemplation. Herodot stared down at the shank of lamb on his plate. He had only taken two bites.

  "Are you not hungry?"

  Herodot looked up at Isaac. "Guess not."

  "You must eat if you're going to finish translating your beloved Tupšarru." Isaac tore off a hunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. Crumbs spilled from the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "What does our Akkadian poet have to say today?"

  Herodot pushed the plate away and tented his hands, forearms resting against the fine cedar table. "He's no longer Tupšarru."

  Isaac ceased chewing and swallowed. He started to talk, coughed,
and then drank a draft of water. "What do you mean by that? It's not the same scribe?"

  "It is. And it's not."

  "Riddles. I hate riddles. Explain, please."

  Herodot smiled. Isaac was the most literal man he'd ever met. Although older than himself, Isaac seemed to view the world through an impatient, petulant child's eyes. It was one of the things that had drawn them together.

  "Tupšarru is now calling himself 'Trianni of Gujaritan."

  "Gujaritan?"

  "If I have the pronunciation correct. Something like that."

  "What is Gujaritan?"

  "His birthplace. A small village east of Lothal."

  Isaac took another sip of water. "If memory serves, Lothal was a port of sorts?"

  "Yes," Herodot agreed. "Of sorts. Legends say it was the first of its kind, situated at the tributaries of the great Indus river."

  "I thought Tupšarru was Akkadian?"

  "Evidently not." Herodot looked down at the lamb on his plate. His stomach growled, but not from hunger. Since reading Trianni's first tablet that morning, he'd been unsettled.

  "Does he say how he got there?"

  "I don't know yet. I haven't translated the entire group of tablets. I'm only two in and he's written about Gujaritan. Growing up in a great forest near an emerald river."

  "Indus," Isaac said. "Strange land."

  "Yes. I may have to speak to Archelon and see if he knows where Gujaritan is, if it still exists."

  "Well, if anyone knows, it'll be Archelon." Isaac turned around and surveyed the hall. He nodded to himself and then faced Herodot. "I heard Cleitus wanted to speak with you privately."

  Herodot flushed. "Yes. He did."

  Isaac waited a beat and then he raised his hands, palms facing the ceiling.

  "He wanted to speak with me about Akkad."

  "I doubt that," Isaac muttered. "What did he say?"

  "Just that he knew I was spending a lot of time on Akkadian translation." Herodot grunted. "And that Akakios said I was the best scribe he had."

  "Blasphemy," Isaac muttered. "How dare Akakios make such an erroneous claim. Clearly I'm better than you." Crumbs of bread fell from the corners of his mouth.

  "Clearly," Herodot agreed.

  "So, what else did he say?"

  Herodot sighed.

  ***

  After the morning's lecture, Cleitus had waited for the other students to depart. When the lecture hall was empty save for the head Librarian and Herodot, the Greek strode forward and leaned on the lowest set of seats. Two rows above him, Herodot could see light reflecting from the man's bald pate.

  Herodot shook the slightest bit. He'd never been alone in the presence of the man. Cleitus smiled as he tapped his fingers on the stone bench.

  "Akakios tells me you are his best translator for Babylonian, Indus, and Aramaic."

  Herodot said nothing.

  "He also tells me you are somewhat of an expert on the Akkadian religions."

  The young scribe blushed.

  "Well, boy, what have you been translating?"

  "I--" His voice came out in a cough. He cleared his throat and tried to stop quivering. "I have been working through tablets from an Akkadian scribe."

  The old Greek chuckled. "A scribe translating a scribe. And does this scribe have a name?"

  "He calls himself Tupšarru of Akkad."

  "Hmm. Doesn't that mean scribe?"

  "Yes, sir." Herodot cleared his throat again. "It is the only name he gives."

  "Interesting." Cleitus peered up at the ceiling. "These walls, this place, were all made for people like us, Herodot."

  Herodot followed the old man's eyes. Frescoes were emblazoned on the high ceiling. Egyptian, Cuneiform, Sanskrit, Aramaic, and Greek words flowed out from its center. All said the same thing: "History is knowledge. Science is knowledge. Art is knowledge. In all things, know."

  "Alexander commissioned the Library," Cleitus said as his eyes turned back to Herodot's. "The story goes that he wanted a place for all civilizations. For all peoples."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All that is here is for all." Cleitus's eyes hardened. "Even Jews."

  Anger stirred in his belly. Herodot was used to the slurs, but somehow hearing them from the head librarian made it more biting. "Even Jews," Herodot agreed through clenched teeth.

  "Your Tupšarru. What does he say about Akkad?"

  "He describes market days, the endless war in the outer kingdoms, and the influx of merchants up and down the river."

  "Nothing else?"

  Herodot shrugged. "Not thus far. He writes of a great flood that killed many and led to higher levels being built on some of the ziggurats."

  "When would that have been?"

  "I-- I'm not sure, sir. I haven't been able to pinpoint when he lived."

  "Pity," Cleitus said. The Greek walked away from the bench and toward the center of the floor. "You seemed to show interest in the story of Philus."

  "Indeed, sir. Akakios never mentioned such a tale."

  "I doubt Akakios is even aware of it."

  "If I may ask, sir, how did you hear of it?"

  Cleitus smiled. "I too was once a scribe, Jew, though I focused mainly on Herratic and Aramaic." He chuckled. "You seem surprised."

  "I am, sir. I-- I didn't--"

  "You didn't think I studied the Jews."

  "No, sir."

  "I find the Jewish customs strange, Herodot. I find their history far more interesting. Although I, of course, have no belief in Yahweh any more than Zeus."

  Herodot gulped.

  "Ah, I am sorry. I didn't mean to blaspheme."

  Herodot said nothing.

  "Philus' scroll was one of the original items sent to the Library before its completion. At least that's what I think. Difficult to tell, but based on the other effects cataloged near it, I can only assume it was sent shortly after Alexander's death."

  "Those items are protected by the guard."

  "Indeed," Cleitus said. "The Ptolemys are very protective of those works. Even now, three of the royal guard surround the effects at all times. One must get permission from the head librarian to study them. And none of the material is allowed out of the room.

  "But," Cleitus whispered, his eyes smiling with delight, "some scribes made copies of those works, so they might be studied outside the hallowed halls."

  Herodot shook his head. "I thought copying those works was--"

  "Forbidden? Of course, it is," Cleitus laughed. "We can't have the entire world knowing what a bastard Alexander was."

  "A copy exists? Of Philus' tale?"

  "Would you like me to bring it to you? For your amusement?"

  "Very much so, sir."

  "Good," Cleitus said. He rubbed a finger against his temple, massaging it. "Someone needs to keep those stories alive. Especially if Ptolemy loses. Who knows what that barbarian Caesar will do."

  The man's cheeks had gone red and he seemed to waver on his feet.

  "You don't look well, sir."

  "Perhaps when you're my age, you'll understand what it is to be old." The Greek shook his head as if to clear it and then regained his composure. "I have kept you long enough, young man. Get to work."

  "Sir," Herodot replied.

  Cleitus turned and left the room.

  Even Cleitus wasn't above breaking the Library's rules. In fact the man had looked pleased with himself.

  ***

  Isaac nodded as Herodot finished the tale. "You better watch that old man." Isaac swung his head around in a show of checking who was in earshot. "I hear he buggers the serving boys," Isaac said through a cupped hand.

  Herodot shook his head. "Greeks," he whispered.

  Isaac laughed. "Yes, and where would we be without them?"

  "Well, I'd still be starving in the temple."

  "Doubtful. More than likely you'd be a rent boy."

  "This fascination you have with buggery worries me. Yahweh will be most displeased."

 
Isaac shrugged. "With all the terrible things going on in this city, I doubt I even rate attention." The older scribe drank from his copper cup and tapped his fingers against it. "Did you hear the fighting last night?"

  "I hear it every night."

  "No, I mean did you listen?"

  "By the time I entered my cell," Herodot said, "I was too tired to do anything but sleep."

  Isaac studied him for a moment. "You don't look as though you slept at all, my friend. Something happen?"

  "Bad dreams," Herodot said quietly.

  "Ptolemy's men are getting closer to the palace. Closer and closer still. Soon they'll be right out our front door. When that happens, do you think those soldiers are going to continue protecting us?"

  "We have nothing to fear from Ptolemy."

  "Perhaps not," Isaac agreed. "But there will be bloodshed. And a lot of it."

  "Nothing to me."

  "Perhaps not."

  "Will you stop saying that?"

  "Perhaps not," Isaac said in a grim voice.

  Herodot reached over the table and hit him on the shoulder and the two broke into laughter.

  "What I mean is the Library survives no matter who is in power."

  "I know," Isaac said. "I just wish they'd hurry up so I can return to my humble hovel in the city."

  Humble hovel. That was Isaac's phrase for the nearest whorehouse.

  "How many commandments do you break when you go there?"

  Isaac leered. "As many as I can."

  Herodot blushed.

  A bell rang. The two men turned to the front of the hall. Cleitus stood in grim silence, waiting for the room to quiet. Conversations stopped. Drinks were placed back on tables. Midday meal was suddenly silent.

  "It is time, gentleman, to return to your work. May the rest of your day be productive."

  The diminutive Greek bowed to the hall, turned, and disappeared through the nearest arch.

  The room remained silent as the hall's inhabitants rose from their tables and filed out through the arches. Herodot wasn't certain, but he thought he heard Isaac say "pizzle."

  The Library was a large building containing many halls, rooms, and studios. Stone and marble columns, adorned with gilt gold, frescoes, and friezes were every where. At each winter's solstice, the head librarian chose three artists from those in residence to add an adornment of their choice to the library.