The bawling of the sheep was almost unbearable, a low roar that filled the air, interspersed

with the occasional yowl or cry of protest.

Thousands of the animals were crammed together in the pastures just outside the city walls,

driven dozens or even hundreds of miles from their grazing spots all over the countryside

by their shepherds.

Most of them had already had their wool plucked, great tufts coming off by the handful, hot

and unpleasant work made easier by the cool spring breezes rolling over the alluvial planes

of Mesopotamia.

A few, Dion Lucky, had already been slaughtered, their hides removed and remains butchered

to make a series of fine meals.

The scribe cursed as the fleeced hem of his long woolen skirt dragged through a pile

of fresh manure.

He waited impatiently for the man in the shorter, tufted skirt, a much fancier garment,

to finish his conversation with one of the shepherds.

Twirling a reed stylus in one hand, holding a lump of malleable clay in the other, the

scribe was ready to record the quantities and qualities of wool collected here today.

When the man finished, he listed a series of weights, menus, and grades of wool.

Using the stylus, the scribe impressed a series of wedges and lines into the wet clay.

Stepping carefully around further piles of sheep dung to avoid ruining his already dirty

skirt, the scribe left the pastures.

He walked under the tall mud-brick city walls, through the gate and along the winding

streets until he reached the edge of the temple complex.

...