The Trilingual Nightmare: A Day in Ancient Alexandria
The Journal of Khenti, High Priest of Thoth, in the 23rd Year of Emperor Antoninus Pius
Dawn: The Sacred Awakening
I rise before Ra touches the horizon, as is proper. First duty: the morning calculations for temple offerings. Sacred mathematics require hieratic numerals - the flowing script that connects us to Ma’at’s eternal order. Twenty loaves, thirty measures of beer, forty-two sacred oils (for the forty-two judges of the dead, naturally).
But my stylus pauses. Yesterday’s Roman grain shipment was recorded as “XLII sacks.” My assistant Djedkhonsuiuefankh (I must remember to suggest he consider a shorter name) has dutifully copied this as 𓎉𓎉𓎉𓎉𓈇𓈇 in our ledger. Forty-two in our beautiful hieratic. But now I must verify: does Roman “XLII” truly equal our forty-two, or have I misunderstood their backwards-counting system again?
[Khenti draws lines in the sand: I, II, III, IV, V… counts on fingers… yes, forty-two. Praise Thoth.]
Morning: The Bureaucratic Hydra
Knock at the temple door. A Roman courier with official scroll: “Census report required in Latin numerals by Ides of Martius.” I stare at the wax tablet. We have MCDXVII temple visitors this month. But how do I convert our visitor tally marks into… whatever this Roman madness demands?
| I count our vertical strokes ( | …) and realize I need to think backwards. One thousand (M), plus four hundred (CD - why subtract C from D instead of writing CCCC? Romans!), plus ten (X), plus five (V), plus two (II). MCDXVII. |
Wait. No. That’s one thousand four hundred seventeen. But we had one thousand seven hundred forty-three visitors. Let me try again…
[Twenty minutes later, covered in ink stains and sand dust]
MDCCXLIII. Finally. My scribe Djedkhonsuiuefankh watches with barely concealed pity. “Master,” he ventures, “perhaps we should hire a Roman clerk for these translations?”
“Never,” I snap. “Thoth’s priests do not surrender the sacred mathematics to barbarians who can’t decide whether V comes before or after I.”
Midday: The Merchant’s Dilemma
Apollodorus arrives with his donation ledger. Blessed fellow wants to give silver to repair the sanctuary roof. But his accounts are in those Hindu-Arab numerals the eastern traders use: “247 drachmae.”
I stare at the marks: 2, 4, 7. Each symbol means something absolute - not like Roman letters that change meaning based on position. This “2” means two, always. This “4” means four, not “one less than five.” Revolutionary concept. Almost… logical?
But how do I record this in our temple books? Do I translate to hieratic (𓏤𓏤𓎆𓎆𓎆𓎆𓐍) or Roman (CCXLVII) or keep the original? Each choice carries implications. Hieratic honors the gods, Roman satisfies the prefect, Hindu-Arab reflects economic reality.
I compromise: all three, in parallel columns. My scrolls look like a madman’s fever dream, but at least everyone can read something.
Afternoon: The Translation Crisis
Emergency! A grain shortage dispute between Egyptian farmers, Roman tax collectors, and Greek merchants. Each party has documented the same shipments in different systems:
Egyptian farmers (hieratic): “We delivered 𓍧𓎆𓎆𓎆 sacks” (1,300)
Roman tax collectors (Latin): “We received MCC sacks” (1,200)
Greek merchants (alphabetic numerals): “We sold ΑΤ´ sacks” (1,301)
Three counting systems, three different totals, one very angry Roman prefect demanding to know who’s lying.
I spread my papyrus on the floor, surrounded by counting stones, tally marks, and increasingly frantic calculations. Djedkhonsuiuefankh brings beer. We count everything three times in three different systems.
The truth emerges: everyone is correct within their own system, but they’re counting different things. Egyptians count full sacks, Romans count official weight units, Greeks count transaction records. Same grain, different mathematical universes.
Evening: The Philosophical Crisis
As Ra descends, I contemplate the day’s chaos. Three empires, three ways of understanding quantity, three assumptions about what numbers mean.
Our hieratic numerals embed cosmic order - they connect to Ma’at’s eternal balance. Roman numerals declare imperial authority - they organize the world into legions and provinces. Hindu-Arab numerals serve pure function - they calculate without ceremony.
But which system reveals truth? When I count temple offerings, am I discovering divine mathematics (Egyptian), imposing human order (Roman), or simply processing data (Arab)?
Young Djedkhonsuiuefankh finds me staring at three versions of the same calculation. “Master, does it matter which symbols we use if the grain is the same grain?”
Wise boy. But he doesn’t understand: symbols shape thought. Count in Roman numerals, think like a Roman administrator. Count in hieratic, commune with eternal principles. Count in Hindu-Arab numerals, and numbers become tools divorced from meaning.
Night: The Dream of Simplicity
I dream of Imhotep’s time, when Egyptian priests used one script, served one pharaoh, calculated one truth. We measured the Nile’s flood in cubits, counted temple offerings in sacred tens, aligned pyramids to eternal stars. Mathematics was worship, numbers were prayer.
Now I wake to trilingual accounting, multicultural taxation, and the exhausting necessity of thinking simultaneously like an Egyptian mystic, Roman bureaucrat, and Arab merchant.
Tomorrow: the Roman prefect wants quarterly reports. The Greek merchants need conversion tables. The Arab traders require calculations in their strange but efficient numerals.
And somewhere in this babel of symbols, the gods still demand their proper offerings, counted in the sacred mathematics that predate all empires.
[Final entry, written in all three scripts simultaneously]
Hieratic: 𓂋𓈖 𓍯𓄿 𓎛𓂋𓏤 𓁹 𓊃𓊪𓊗 (Ra grant me strength)
Latin: THOTH MAGNE AUXILIA (Great Thoth, help me)
Greek numerals: The symbols are too foreign; I’ll stick to prayers in civilized scripts
The Next Day: Divine Intervention from the Marketplace
Walking home yesterday through the merchant quarter (still muttering about Roman numerals), I noticed a peculiar clicking sound from a Syrian trader’s stall. Curious, I approached.
“What is that wooden contraption?” I asked.
The trader, gap-toothed but clever-eyed, grinned. “Abacus, priest. Chinese invention, but we Syrians improved it. Watch.” He began sliding colored beads along parallel rods with startling speed. “I can count in any man’s numbers - Roman, Egyptian, Greek, Hindu, Babylonian - doesn’t matter. The beads tell truth.”
Intrigued despite myself, I watched him demonstrate. “Show me XLII Roman sacks,” I requested.
Click-click-slide - he arranged beads in precise patterns. “Now read it in your Egyptian marks,” he said.
I stared at the configuration: four tens, two ones. Our hieratic 𓎉𓎉𓎉𓎉𓈇𓈇. Exactly right.
“And in those Hindu-Arab symbols?”
“Forty-two,” he said, pointing to the same bead arrangement. “4 and 2. Same number, priest. Different words for same truth.”
By Thoth’s wisdom, I purchased it immediately.
That Same Evening: The Revolution
Djedkhonsuiuefankh found me in my chamber at midnight, surrounded by papyrus and clicking furiously on my new device.
“Master? You seem… different.”
“Different? My boy, I am LIBERATED!” I gestured wildly at the abacus. “Watch this miracle: Roman tax assessment - MCDXVII temple visitors.” Click-slide-click. “Egyptian temple record - 𓆼𓍢𓎆𓐍𓐍𓐍 same visitors!” More clicking. “Hindu-Arab merchant calculation - 1417 identical visitors!”
I was practically dancing around the chamber. “Don’t you see? The Romans aren’t using different numbers - they’re using different WORDS for the same numbers! This wooden marvel doesn’t lie, doesn’t politic, doesn’t care about imperial dignity or sacred tradition. It just… counts!”
Djedkhonsuiuefankh looked concerned. “Master, you seem almost… happy?”
The Next Morning: Practical Divinity
Dawn brought the usual chaos, but now I was armed. Roman courier? Click-click, I convert our hieratic temple records to his Latin numerals instantly. Greek merchant? Slide-slide, I translate his alphabetic numbers to ours without breaking sweat.
The grain shortage dispute that tormented me yesterday? I lined up representatives from all three parties, set the abacus between us like a judge’s bench. “Each of you, show me your count using these beads.”
Egyptian farmer: slides beads to show his 1,300 sacks Roman tax collector: confused initially, then arranges the same beads to represent his “MCC” Greek merchant: manipulates beads for his ΑΤ´
“Observe,” I announced dramatically, “you all counted the same amount. Your dispute is not about grain - it’s about definitions. Farmer counts full sacks, tax collector counts official weight units, merchant counts transaction records.”
The room fell silent. The Syrian trader, who had come to collect payment, nodded approvingly. “Priest learns quickly. Numbers are numbers. Only the words change.”
Midday: The Philosophical Breakthrough
As I calculated temple offerings (click-slide-click), a profound realization struck me. This wooden device embodies Ma’at’s eternal principle of truth more perfectly than our most sacred hieroglyphs.
Egyptian numerals connect us to divine order - but they can obscure practical truth with ceremonial meaning. Roman numerals assert imperial authority - but they make calculation needlessly complex. Hindu-Arab numerals serve pure function - but they lack spiritual resonance.
The abacus transcends all these limitations. It reveals mathematical truth in any language, serves any empire’s needs, adapts to any merchant’s requirements. It is, in essence, the perfect priestly tool: respectful of all traditions while enslaved to none.
Djedkhonsuiuefankh watches me work with something approaching awe. “Master, you’ve solved trilingual accounting.”
“More than that, my boy. I’ve discovered that Thoth’s wisdom includes knowing when to embrace foreign inventions that serve eternal truth.”
Evening: The Convert
That Syrian trader returned as I was closing the temple. “How fares the counting machine, priest?”
“It has revolutionized my existence,” I declared. “But I have questions. Can you teach me more advanced techniques?”
He laughed. “Priest, you’ve used it one day and already you calculate faster than clerks who’ve trained for years. But yes - Chinese masters know methods for multiplication, division, even square roots. All on beads.”
“Square roots on beads?” My mind reeled. “Can you… can you obtain instructional scrolls?”
“For the right price.” He grinned that gap-toothed grin. “But I warn you - once you truly master this device, you may never want to return to scratching numbers in sand.”
I looked at my chamber: papyrus covered with crossed-out calculations, ink stains on my robes, three different styluses for three different scripts.
Then I looked at the abacus: clean, efficient, honest.
“I don’t think that will be a problem.”
Note found in margin: “Djedkhonsuiuefankh suggests we order ten more abaci for the junior priests. I told him to make it twenty. Some innovations serve all traditions at once.”