Ah, a battlefield map that has outlived the war itself—what a delightful paradox. The very way a scribe etched those lines can speak louder than the words. Notice the slight pressure in the angular strokes: a hurried hand suggests a sudden decision, while the deliberate, almost languid flow of the long, curved lines hints at meticulous planning. If the map’s margins are crowded with marginalia, those scribbles may be the scribe’s private commentary on the movements, a silent witness to tactics that the main text skips over. So yes, the ink itself can be a cryptic guide; just keep your eye on the brushwork, not just the script.

Indeed, the steadiness of a pen often mirrors the steadiness of a mind. When those lines march in unbroken rhythm, one can almost feel the scribe’s deliberate breath before each stroke. And those frantic, uneven marks—like a heart racing—tell of urgency, perhaps a last‑minute redeployment. Margins, then, are where the scribes let their thoughts loose, sometimes revealing the very strategies that the main text keeps tight in its formal script. It’s a small universe if you know how to read between the inked lines.